


Shut Up and Dance

by st1nkf1nger



Category: POKEMON Detective Pikachu (2019), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters: Sun & Moon | Pokemon Sun & Moon Versions
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dancer, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, M/M, Multi, this is just dirty dancing but with pokemon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-24 15:34:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 61,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21640258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/st1nkf1nger/pseuds/st1nkf1nger
Summary: You are a directionless college graduate, deep in a slump. No goals, no drive, no motivation. Your unchanging days are spent at your mother's house, fruitlessly attempting to just exist. Always waiting for something to come your way, but never acting in your own favor. When your friend drags you to the local recreation center in an attempt to pull you from your depression pit, you meet a brash young dance instructor with a penchant for trouble who reluctantly takes you under his wing.
Relationships: Guzma (Pokemon)/Reader
Comments: 32
Kudos: 252





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic in April of 2018, and I have been slowly but surely pecking at it for nearly 2 years. I owe my friend, AK, a great deal for her patience and unending support. Without her and support from the rest of my online family, I would've never finished this fic. I will be posting a chapter a week. Please enjoy!

Admittedly, you have been drifting for awhile now. Freshly graduated from college but with a degree in a field you couldn’t care less for, you spend your days lounging around your mother's house, playing video games and pretending that you’re looking for work. You do chores, but your days are mostly empty. Your mom harasses you daily to get out, to get a job, to apply yourself. But some days you can barely find the energy to get out of bed and shower. How are you supposed to _apply yourself?_

So when your friend Leslie calls you up one week in September and tells you that you’re going with her to the Ryme City rec center to find a class to take together, you know there’s no point in arguing. And honestly, you’re bored out of your mind. So maybe you can waste time taking a home economics course for adults and learn how to sew novelty boxers printed with dancing pikachus. Maybe you’ll take taekwondo or kickboxing, who’s to say. At this point, it doesn’t really matter.

Anything to get you out of the house for a few hours.

On that first day, a horn honks outside to alert you. You peer out the window blinds to see Leslie’s car parked in your driveway. Right on time as always. You grab your bag, slip on your dress shoes, and give the family meowth a scratch under the ears.

“See ya later, Percy,” you say to him, and hurry out the front door. As you approach, Leslie rolls down the passenger window and leans closer. With one finger, she pulls down her shades and peeks over the top of them, grinning wide. A quiet chuckle escapes her as you draw nearer.

“Hey! Are you excited?”

With a bemused roll of your eyes, you yank open the passenger door and slide into the seat. “Thrilled.”

She elbows you gently, giving you one of those _Looks_ , those pitying stares that says she’s concerned about you, and you force a smile. You _hate it_ when she worries. The dreaded Look melts away and a genuine grin blossoms across her features. That’s your Leslie -- always so optimistic.

“There ya go! C’mon, maybe we could try cooking or ooh! We could try yoga!” She continues on, excitedly naming and wondering about classes for the entire thirty minute car ride.

Eventually, you pull into the rec center’s parking lot, find a spot, and before you know it, the pair of you are wandering the halls of the rec center with other hopeful students and even some pokemon. Some machamps and machokes are gesturing animatedly outside a self defense class. There are some abras and a kadabra handing out pamphlets for meditation sessions. A young woman hands out flyers for gardening classes, surrounded by oddishes, tangelas, and bulbasaurs. You’re a little overwhelmed with all the activity, but Leslie is _beside_ herself with excitement. She yanks you by the hand from class listing to class listing, rattling off information faster than you can process.

“Oh, this one is only on Saturdays at 10 am, ew… But this one is free for a whole week!” She gasps. “What about a crash course in sewing basics? Or we could be really responsible adults and take a class about money management, bleh… I think the yoga class is taught by a meditite...” 

At this point, you’re barely listening. You’ve been here for over an hour now. Your feet are hurting and you’re sick of the crowd. There’s two psyduck that keep staring at you. You just want Leslie to pick something quickly so you can be done with it. Bored, you cast your gaze in a wide arc, looking through the throng of people and pokemon. Amongst the sea of heads, a fluffy head of white hair in the distance catches your eye. You crane your neck to see over the crowd, curiosity driving you on.

Your fingers slip from Leslie’s grasp as she excitedly scurries off to look at a listing. Immediately you lose her in the mad whirl of people with their pokemon, perusing the classes offered. With an impatient sigh, you turn in place, trying to spot your friend in the worst game of Where’s Waldo ever, but the current in the river of people is strong today, and you’re quickly swept upstream.

Eventually the flow ebbs, and you find yourself in a hallway lined with open doors. This one is labeled ‘Ballet’ and that one is labeled ‘Self Defense’. Jiu jitsu, Zumba, yoga, waltz, tango... These are all classes involving physicality, your weakest attribute. Leslie is nowhere to be seen. When you find her later, she’s going to get an earful.

“Yo, didn’t anyone teach you it’s rude to be lurkin’ in doorways?” 

Startled from your navel-gazing, your head snaps in the direction of the voice that’s addressing you, and you realize with an unpleasant lurch in your stomach that the voice belongs to the instructor in the room you’re standing outside of. The mystery of the white-haired stranger in the crowd is solved as your eyes take in the strands of white peeking out from underneath a grey knit beanie. Tall and muscular and rugged, he immediately makes your heart pound. He stares at you from the opposite side of the room, dark brows knit together in an expression of bemused annoyance. There’s a wide variety of people here, and you even spot a mr. mime amongst them, wearing a sweatband and red short shorts. You aren’t even sure what class this _is_ before the instructor starts talking again.

“In or out?”

“...What?”

He folds his toned arms over his chest and saddles you with a patient stare. “Are you in or out?” He says the words slow and deliberate and much too loud. “I ain’t got all day, lōlō. Time is money.”

“OH!” Sudden understanding dawns on you and you make an impulsive snap decision. With your cheeks flaming, you trip over the threshold and close the door behind you in the same clunky, uncoordinated motion. The instructor’s slight scowl breaks into a lopsided grin and your stupid heart skips a precious beat. The others in the room stare shamelessly. The mr. mime in the sweatband saucily wiggles its eyebrows in your direction. It’s a good day to be you.

“Good. Those clothes ain’t the best for dancin’ in, but for the first day they’re fine. Lose the shoes, though. You’ll scuff the shit outta the floor and they’d take it out of my paycheck.”

Wait, _dancing?_ What _kind_ of dancing? Oh, fuck. You have two left feet and they’re on backwards. What the hell have you gotten yourself into?

As you hurriedly yank off your hard-soled dress shoes and place them next to your bag in an empty storage cubby, the instructor turns his back on the room and begins fussing with the large stereo in the corner. You tiptoe between the disorderly rows of your fellow pupils, and take a spot near the back of the room. All you have to do is be invisible for an hour and you’re home free. You keep your eyes downcast, willing yourself to be tiny and invisible. The mr. mime’s shorts say ‘are you nasty’ on the ass. You kind of want to die.

“Aight, chumps,” says the instructor, as some slow, bass-heavy techno emanates quietly from the stereo. “This is how it’s gonna work. Class is three times a week, Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays from 3:30 to 5:30. You pay at the beginnin’ of each week, and classes are $100 for all three days.”

As he speaks, the instructor meanders amongst the small group, slowly weaving between each of the pupils, hands clasped behind his back. You put forth a valiant effort to avoid making eye contact. Whenever he turns away from your general direction, however, your eyes can’t seem to help themselves. They flick back to him at the earliest opportunity, drinking in details. They take in the sleeve tattoo on his arm and the one peeking out from beneath his tank top. Is there another at the nape of his neck? Can’t quite make out what they are -- not from this distance.

You’re thoughtfully comparing his height to everyone else’s when he turns quickly on his heel and your eyes meet at long last.

That’s when you realize two things simultaneously. One, he _knows_ you’ve been avoiding his gaze, and two, you haven’t absorbed a single thing he’s said in the past three-and-a-half minutes. Oh, shit, this is just like high school algebra all over again. The instructor stands three feet away from you now, his lopsided grin growing wider.

“...And after today, you ain’t here on time, you ain’t gettin’ in. When the door closes, it stays closed till the class time’s up. Got it?”

It’s a ham-fisted jab but it stings nonetheless. People are staring again.

Your face grows hot with embarrassment as the rest of the class murmurs their assent. The instructor’s eyes are locked onto yours, and his grin is steadily becoming nothing short of shit-eating. Shame and resentment well inside your chest as your hands ball into fists at your sides. What an asshole. A little chuckle escapes him and you swear you could punch something. Why couldn’t this have been a self defense class instead? Those machamps wouldn’t have made you feel like such an idiot.

“Everyone satisfied with where they at then?”

_No, I hate you._

“Cool, let’s get warmed up.”

Everyone in the class immediately partners up. Bewildered, you turn on the spot, hoping to find some other unfortunate partner-less soul, but there are none. Even the mr. mime gets partnered almost immediately. There looks to be two women _fighting_ over who gets to be its partner. You stand there uncertainly, awkward as always, while the rest of the class begins stretching. The instructor approaches, stretching his arms above his head, grinning that same grin.

“You’re gonna pull somethin’ if you don’t at least stretch first,” he says. His brow arches and you feel again the sting of embarrassment.

“What?” You tear your gaze away from his biceps as they flex with each movement. “O-Oh. Right.” Half-heartedly you mimic some of the stretches you see the others doing, pulling one elbow behind your head and then the other, bending at the waist right and then left. You think back to high school gym class and some of the stretches you did then. But you can’t seem to remember much; it had been so long ago. You sit and try to do toe touches until the instructor speaks again.

When the class begins in earnest, you’re surprised by how good he actually is at dancing. His teaching style is abrasive but effective. He starts with a few simple steps, the fundamentals of modern hip hop, pop, and breakdancing, showing each move slowly to allow his students to understand. But your general lack of anything resembling coordination makes even the simplest steps a challenge. By the end of the class, you’re sweating from exertion and your limbs feel dead. And yet the instructor looks as if he’s barely even trying. He moves with practiced ease, gliding through each step slow and sure. It’s impressive.

As the rest of the class packs up their belongings and steadily filters out the door, you hang back. Feigning difficulty with the strap of your bag, you patiently wait until the classroom is empty. Just you and the instructor. You had intended to apologize for causing a scene earlier, but now that you’re here, you’re not sure what to say. Your mind is scrambling in panic now.

“Hey, uh…” He breaks the silence first, startling you. Or maybe you’ve a naturally nervous disposition. Your head whips around to stare with wide eyes. “Sorry about before, givin’ you a hard time and whatnot.” He approaches with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his sweats, grinning that lopsided grin. “Gotta weed out the weak, yanno?”

You bristle visibly.

“...Excuse me?”

“I mean, nothin’ personal but…” He eyes you up and down, and arches a calculating brow. “You and me both know you wouldn’t have come in here willingly. Not with the kinda bad coordination you got.” A mean sort of chuckle escapes him and your cheeks go crimson. “Anyway, my name’s Guzma Bromley.” And he extends a hand to shake yours. 

Positively _incensed_ now, your eyes flick from his outstretched hand to that shit-eating grin plastered on his stupid handsome face. Of all the egotistical, arrogant, _ridiculous --_ With a huff, you wrench open your bag, fish a $100 bill from your wallet, and shove it into his open palm.

“Wh-”

“See you tomorrow,” you sneer, and brush past him without a backward glance.

Heart thudding almost painfully hard in your ears, you rush from the classroom to find Leslie waiting outside, leaning against the wall. She opens her mouth to question you, but before she can get a word out, you grab her by the wrist and yank her down the hall. The pair of you hurry from the rec center. The drive home is awkward and silent. You spend a majority of the car ride running over the entire conversation with him again and again. 

He probably thinks he was just poking harmless fun, and if you confront him about it, he’ll brush it off as a joke. But after all you’ve been through that day, all the ‘putting yourself out there’ you’ve done, it’s the last thing you need to hear. The longer you think about the entire situation, the more upset you get.

When Leslie drops you off at your house, you can barely stand to look at her. Without so much as a goodbye, you hop out of the car, climb the porch steps, and disappear into your house. You’re desperate for solitude. As you pass, your mother calls your name, but you ignore her. The tears are coming now, hot and blinding, as you hurry up the stairs. At last you find solace in your bedroom. Unceremoniously, you kick the door closed behind you, dump your bag onto the floor, toe off your shoes, and sit heavily on the side of your bed. Percy, who’d been snoozing there, lifts his head and huffs at you indignantly. You can’t stop replaying the unpleasant situation at the rec center over and over. Sniffling, you turn and bury your face into your pillow. The tears flow freely now, and sleep is mercifully quick. 

You wake to a dark room, not quite lightless but dark. Percy is snuggled against your back, snoring quietly. It’s a comforting feeling, having him warm and solid against you. He always knows just how to make you feel better. Sitting up, you peer at the alarm clock. So you’ve only been asleep for about two hours. You lean over, turn on your bedside lamp, and fish your phone from your pocket.

 _Twelve_ unread text messages from Leslie, and four missed calls. With a groan, you tap on your screen to dial her number.

\---

“Honestly, Les, I wanted to fucking deck him.”

“I don’t doubt it. The guy sounds like a real douche canoe. Are you seriously going back tomorrow?”

“I mean, I paid for the week, yanno?" You sigh and shift your mobile phone to your other ear and pin it to your head with your shoulder. "I could just say fuck it and skip, but then I’m out $100 and he gets the last laugh.” You scrutinize your closet, moving hangers left and right and then you groan. “Plus Mom would kick my ass if she found out I wasted money.”

“That’s a good point…” A beat of silence. “...So is he hot?”

“ _Leslie!_ ”

“What!! It’s a legit question!”

“ _God,_ yes. Well. He might be a bit young for your tastes...”

“You know me so well…” 

“His name is Guzma and… he’s ridiculous.” You turn away from your closet, giving up for a moment on the fruitless task of finding suitable dance clothes, and with a strangled moan, flop face-first onto your bed. Percy lifts his head and his tail flicks in irritation. “Just… so fucking yummy with these tattoos and piercings and an undercut...”

Leslie chuckles. “You gotta sneak a pic for me tomorrow!”

“Why don’t you just come to the class yourself??”

A derisive snort answers your question. “You know I’m clumsy as hell, I can’t dance!”

“And I can??”

Another chuckle escapes her. “C’mon, it won’t be that bad. Maybe you can learn something… Or, yanno, maybe you could get fucked by some hot dancer guy. Either way, you win.”

“Les, I’m gonna fight you.” You’re only half joking.

“You say that a lot, and yet I haven’t _once_ seen you square up.”

“I can and will astral project to your house to kick your ass.”

This time, you both laugh, until you’re both breathless, and your heart feels lighter. A grin breaks out across your face. Nothing like having a friend on your side to lift your spirits. Already you feel like you can take whatever this guy dishes out.

“Did you even sign up for a class?”

“No.” Leslie’s laughter peters out, and she breathes a sigh. “There was nothing there that interested me.” She’s quiet for a moment, contemplating. “Well, anyway. If there’s anyone who could give this guy a run for his money in terms of assholery, it’s you.”

“Gee, _thanks,_ ” you reply in a scathing tone.

“No problem!” she says cheerily. “Better go find your dancing clothes!” And she hangs up before you can say anything else.

With a heavy groan of protest, you push yourself off your bed and return to the task of unearthing suitable clothes for dancing in. Your workout wardrobe is less than extensive, to say the least, but you find enough things to wear. Part of you is actually a little excited. Maybe this class can really transform you, and maybe for once, you can be less… you. At the very least, you’ll give it a week.

Percy watches you implacably, curled into a loaf on your bedspread. He blinks his large, gleaming green eyes as you approach.

“Percy,” you sigh and flop back onto the bed. Your hand moves automatically to his chin. “I’m the dumbest person ever.”

“Me-ow?” 

“Think I can do this?”

“Mee-owth.” He starts purring as you scratch under his ears, and his paws begin kneading your bedspread.

“Yea, I don’t either.”

Your clothes picked out and set out on your dresser, you shower and change into comfy PJs for sleeping. When you crawl into bed, you think of Guzma’s shocked face as you pressed the money into his palm. A cruel, mean sort of pride swells within your chest, and you drift off to sleep with a smile on your lips.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, you awake before your alarm. For just a few minutes, you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Anxiety gnaws at your gut, even with Percy laying on top of it. Even though it’s several hours away, you’re dreading the trip back into that rec center. As you roll out of bed and get dressed, your mind wars with your body, trying its hardest to convince you to stay home. And yet you find yourself sitting in your kitchen, buttering toast. 

“You’re up early,” says a voice, half-yawned from behind you. You turn and see your mother tying her green tartan robe around her waist and pulling curlers from her hair. 

“Oh. Yeah, I guess I’m just nervous.”

“About what?” She starts fiddling with the coffee maker on the counter. She stifles another yawn behind her hand.

“...I signed up for a dance class.”

“That’s nice.” She suddenly stiffens when your words finally register. “Wait, _what_.” Your mother nearly drops the carafe in her surprise. She stares at you, aghast. “Why on earth would you do that?”

“...No reason, really.” There’s no point in blaming Leslie for it. She didn’t make you volunteer for a dance class. “Anyway, the instructor was an asshole. I’m dreading seeing him again.”

“Oh? Is that what upset you so much yesterday?”

“Yeah. He kinda singled me out, embarrassed me in front of everyone… made comments about my general lack of coordination.” 

“Oh, honey. I know that’s a sensitive subject for you.” She lays a sympathetic hand on your shoulder and squeezes, but your fingernails have suddenly become very interesting. “Well, don’t take it lying down, sweetheart. He starts flinging shit, you scoop it up and fling it right back at him.” She returns to the coffee maker.

“Gross. Thanks, Mom.”

She grins brightly and presses a kiss to your forehead. “So when does the class start?”

“Oh, it’s not till later this afternoon, I just wanted to maybe… I don’t know, go for a jog?” You cast your mother a plaintive, confused stare, clearly seeking some kind of sage motherly advice. To be perfectly honest, you’re lost. She chuckles.

“I don’t know, you haven’t exactly been keeping up a strict exercise regimen. Going from zero to sixty like that might be hard. And I don’t want you injuring yourself.”

That’s a fair point, one you hadn’t considered. Even though this class is for beginners, you expect the learning curve to be pretty steep. Maybe it’s better to take this slow.

“...Okay, maybe I’ll take a _walk_ then…”

“That’s a better idea. Take your phone just in case.”

With a renewed resolve, you wolf down your toast as quickly as you can without choking. You grab your earbuds from your jacket pocket, swipe a bottle of water from the fridge, and head out into the early morning sun. 

It’s been a long time since you’ve been awake this early. It’s honestly overwhelming. The sun is bright in the clear blue sky, and the song of many chatots, pikipeks, and oricorios fills the air. With energetic music pumping through your earbuds, you pick a random direction, and start walking. The streets are mostly deserted, and you meet only a handful of people walking their pokemon on your aimless stroll. An old woman and her snubbull, a young man and his growlithe, a couple and their Alolan vulpix. You’re gone for around twenty minutes and when you return, you feel more alive already. You spend the rest of the morning straightening up your bedroom and clearing some of the dirty clothes. Your mother appears about halfway through your cleaning frenzy, leaning against the frame of the door and staring at you with a bewildered expression.

“Uh. Who are you and what have you done with my child?”

“Ha ha, very funny,” you reply, brushing past her with an armful of dirty clothes.

“Maybe you should sign up for classes more often, if this is the kind of behavior it encourages!” she calls after you.

All too soon, the time for your class approaches. You can hardly believe it’s here already. Since Leslie isn’t coming this time, you’ll have to drive yourself. Dressed in your comfortable workout clothes and fully prepared this time, you hop into your mother’s car and head towards the rec center. The entire drive, you’re full to bursting with nervous energy, running different conversational scenarios through your head. 

When you finally arrive at the rec center, you’re several minutes early. So you might’ve done some light speeding on the drive here -- big deal. After psyching yourself up in the car, you decide you can’t procrastinate any more. Once you’re out of the car, your feet decide that it’s time to kick it into overdrive, and you arrive at the classroom door in record time. Maybe you’ll get lucky and the class will be canceled. Maybe the instructor came down with food poisoning or something.

You’re never that lucky.

Anxiously, you peer around the edge of the open door, and see him in the empty classroom. He’s wearing baggy black-grey sweatpants with a sleeveless hoodie, and that fluffy white undercut peeks out from beneath a backwards flat-brim cap. Your treacherous, stupid heart skips a beat or two as you watch him go through his warm up stretches. He pulls one elbow behind his head and then another, rolls his neck and shoulders. When he achieves a particularly straining position, a little grunt of effort escapes him, and you suddenly can’t breathe.

_Stupid sexy Guzma._

As if he can somehow hear your thoughts, he turns and spots you peeking around the doorframe. A crooked smirk curves his lip as he straightens from his stretching position.

“Hey, lōlō. Didn’t I say somethin’ to you yesterday about lurkin’ in doorways?”

Face immediately hot, you move fully into the classroom. You try not to notice him eyeing your outfit with a critical eye, but it’s kind of hard not to notice.

“Hey-ey, those clothes are way better for dancin’ in. Guess you really are stickin’ around, huh?”

“Yeah, well. Yesterday I just went with an impulse. Kinda obvious I wasn’t intending on taking a dance lesson.” A nervous bark of laughter, much too loud, escapes you. You look away, another wave of searing hot embarrassment washing over you. 

“Yeah, I had that much figured. But, uh…” He scrubs at his undercut with his nails. “Since you’re here early, you want me to give you some pointers? Maybe show you some easy moves?”

Well, you _are_ here to learn how to dance, aren’t you? Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

“Yeah, might as well get my money’s worth out of you, right?” The words leave your lips before you can stop them, and you immediately regret even waking up this morning.

Guzma’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and his expression hovers momentarily somewhere between amused and shocked. With a little chuckle and a shake of his head, he turns away to the large stereo at the front of the room. 

You take a moment to bury your face in your hands and pray for the earth to swallow you whole. 

He fiddles with the stereo controls, and a song begins playing. It’s bass-heavy thrum of a song, one that rattles in your chest with each vibrating beat. For the first time, you really understand the phrase ‘feel the music.’

He returns to you, and there’s a visible shift in his demeanor. Before the music, he was carefree and almost lackadaisical in his movements. Now every step is deliberate, nothing wasted. He spends the next few minutes breaking down different moves and then letting you try your hand at them. You try your best, but you’re beginning to suspect that your brain is simply not made to comprehend this kind of movement. 

Guzma is a patient instructor. With every failed attempt, he only repeats the movement but slower. Occasionally, he moves his hands across your body to adjust your positioning. You struggle to keep your pulse from spiking every time. He breaks down each segment of movement as much as he can. It seems that simple repetition and muscle memory is the key to this sort of thing. Neither are what you’d call strong suits of yours, but at the end of the thirty minute one-on-one with him, he actually looks pleased with your progress. Though, that might just be wishful thinking on your part.

“Eh, you’ll get it. Takes practice.”

“I don’t think my body is physically capable of this.”

“Listen, you think I came out the pussy dancin’ fuckin’ Mozart?”

You blink in shock at both the vulgarity and absurdity of this statement. “...I-I guess not.”

“Fuck no, I didn’t! Had to work my ass off at it. You’ll get it. _Takes practice_.” He repeats himself with extra emphasis, brows furrowed.

All you can do in the face of such passion is stare. He really does care a lot about this, doesn’t he?

The song ends. He pulls away with almost insulting speed, and other classmates begin filtering into the studio. As he turns his attention to the newcomers, a tiny stab of jealousy digs its claws into your heart. Puzzled by your own conflicted thoughts, you retreat to the back of the classroom. The class begins in earnest, and you try your hardest to copy his movements exactly, but the finesse of it still eludes you. Even the mr. mime, whose name is Bubbles according to its owner, is picking up on this faster than you are. You nail a few of the moves Guzma had shown you, but you’re hardly Missy Elliot. Yet.

As the class time comes to a close, you fish out a towel and a thermos of ice water from your bag. With an exhausted sigh, you sit on the floor with your back resting against the wall and take a long swig. As your fellow classmates filter one by one out of the room, someone new enters.

A tall woman with bold eyeshadow and twin pigtails peeking out from beneath a cap saunters into the room. One braid is pink, the other yellow. The design emblazoned on the cap, a stylized ‘S’ that resembles a skull, matches the one on Guzma’s cap. Her clothes are comfortable black sweats and a crop top beneath an open hoodie. You watch as she and Guzma greet one another with high fives and fist bumps and exuberant bro hugs. A salazzle sporting a pink and black bandana around her neck follows closely at the girl’s heels.

You dawdle, feeling only a slight pang of guilt as you eavesdrop on their conversation. You make a show of digging in your duffel bag for something while Guzma and this mystery woman converse. The salazzle is eyeing you.

“Hey, the rest of the squad’ll be here in five, boss. You ready for rehearsal?”

Guzma wipes his brow with a towel from his duffel and uncaps a bottle of water. “Yeah, yeah, lemme just lock up the room. You know how Nanu and Hala like to get on my case about that shit.”

“They’re still bein’ shitty?” The woman crosses her arms and wrinkles her nose. Her salazzle is inching closer to you, her eyes curious and suspicious. She drops to all fours and chirps at you, nostrils flaring.

“Yeah, pretty much. Well, Hala’s alright, I guess, but… every day Nanu comes in here and slings some new bullshit threat about kickin’ me out of the rec center. But he ain’t done it yet. And after we _win…_ ” He shoots her a mirthless, almost _angry_ grin. “That should shut him up.”

The woman’s lip curves into a grin that mirrors his. “Fuck yeah.”

The last of the class trickles from the room, leaving only you, Guzma, and this woman with her suspicious salazzle. As you get to your feet and heft your duffel bag over your shoulder, she gives you a long, imperious stare. It’s not a glare, not really, but she isn’t smiling either. She simply exudes a very intense energy, and the salazzle at her side mirrors this energy. Red-faced, you mutter apologies and duck out of the room. Something stops you from leaving the rec center entirely, though. _What was that she had said about rehearsal?_

You stop at the water fountain to refill your thermos, and watch as Guzma and the woman exit the classroom behind you, the salazzle trailing faithfully behind. As Guzma fumbles with the keys, a group of four more individuals approaches. One of them, a girl with bubblegum-pink curls and a rattata perched on her shoulder, holds a large black CD player in one hand. They all wear caps bearing the same design -- that ‘S’ stylized to look like a skull. Other than the caps, they’re wearing matching black track suits and white sneakers. The six of them exchange playful greetings and after the door is successfully locked, they head deeper into the rec center.

Curiosity gnaws at you. Casting a surreptitious glance over your shoulder, you silently count to ten, and take off down the hallway after them. They’re not particularly quiet, which makes following a breeze. They lead you down a few hallways to a large set of double doors. As they enter and the door eases shut behind them, you slip up to the square window and peek inside.

It’s an auditorium. Rows and rows of seating lead the eye downward to a large stage, raised several feet above the floor. At the moment, the stage looks to be in the middle of preparations for a play production. Half-painted props and a backdrop -- some sort of beach scene -- litter the background. The group are all situated in a loose circle, stretching and chatting amicably. The salazzle lounges on the edge of the stage, grooming herself lazily. The rattata amuses itself by darting between people’s legs, chittering triumphantly as they trip. Guzma squats in the center, fiddling with the CD player.

As quietly as you can manage, you open the door and slip into the row furthest from the stage. Luckily, they’re all too preoccupied to notice.

“Plumeria! Can ya figure this stupid thing out, it’s not workin’ right!” snarls Guzma, jabbing an angry finger at the CD player. 

The woman with the pink and blonde pigtails approaches. She squats before the CD player as Guzma straightens. This is just the distraction you need to slip in unnoticed. You hunker down as low as you can in your seat with your duffel bag in your lap and watch the little group of people, enraptured.

“Alright, guys.” Guzma’s voice, loud and resonating, makes you jump a little at the sharpness of it. Immediately the others snap to attention. Guzma continues, pacing in the center of the circle. “We’ve worked our _asses_ off and now… well, now, everything we’ve been workin’ for is _right there._ Right within our grasp. And we’re gonna fuckin’ get it. Snatch it right out from under their noses.”

The group erupts into cheers and hoots, echoing throughout the empty auditorium. A little smile curves your lip at the sight of their exultation. 

“Team Skull, fall in!” shouts Guzma, and in a flurry of activity and squeaking shoes, everyone moves into the proper position. They scatter across the stage, spreading apart from one another. Some squat, some strike a pose. All become still. Guzma stands at the center of the stage, arms crossed over his chest.

Plumeria moves the CD player off to the side of the stage, and scurries to find her spot just behind Guzma. There’s a brief silence, sparking with excited electricity, and then a song comes on the CD player. It starts slow, a rhythmic pulsing of that same ribcage-rattling bass beat. Each member of Team Skull moves with that beat, changing their positions in a sort of rapid-fire modeling exhibition. And then the song begins in earnest.

Immediately the dancers come alive. They move in perfect synchronicity, a well-oiled machine creating art before your very eyes. Guzma and Plumeria at the center, moving as if mirroring one another. Occasionally, Guzma barks orders at the rest of the team, short words of instruction or encouragement. As the performance continues, he and Plumeria come together and their individual dances intertwine until two becomes one. The pair of them move in perfect unison, in an intense display of what two people can really achieve when they’re truly in sync.

But something about it feels off.

The dance is meant to be intimate and sexy, but it’s clear that the two only see one another as friends. Although they perform it perfectly, it feels mechanical and cold. There’s no _passion_ to their touches or glances. It’s the one low part of the performance. The rest of it is pretty much perfect -- not that you’re an expert.

When the song comes to an end, the dance ends with it, and everyone disperses to take long swigs of water from their various bottles. Guzma moves between everyone, giving corrections and instructions.

“Aight, ya’ll, take it from the top and let’s mark it half time, just to get some changes down.”

You take this as your cue to exit. As quickly and as quietly as you entered, you scoop up your duffel bag and slip unnoticed out of the door. 

Your drive home from the rec center is a mad whirl of thoughts. The electricity of their routine renews your resolve, and you imagine yourself performing the advanced techniques you’d seen. When you get home, you scurry up to your room and spend the remainder of your day practicing, Percy as your audience. When your mom comes home and calls you down for dinner, you bound down the stairs to greet her, slightly out of breath and sweating.

“How was your day, hon?” Your mother blinks in shock as she turns to face you, arching a curious brow as her gaze moves from your exercise clothes to the sheen of sweat on your brow. She hands you a paper bag and drink from your favorite fast food place. The pair of you take a seat at the kitchen table and start digging in.

“Oh, it was okay. I don’t know, I think I wanna keep doing this dance thing,” you say around mouthfuls of food.

“Is that so?” Her expression is slowly becoming more and more suspicious. “...Sweetheart, are you doing this for a boy?”

You choke on a bite of your chicken nugget. “Wh-what? No! No, of course not! Mom, what the hell!”

“Hm…” Her suspicious expression doesn’t change, even as she starts unwrapping her food. “Well, wanting to self-improve is a worthy goal, I just want you to do it for the right reasons. And some dumb boy is not the right reason.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Your face feels hot now, and you hurriedly scarf down the rest of your food. “I’m gonna do some more practicing then head to bed. I’m beat.”

“Alright, sweetheart. Just don’t over-work yourself.”

You hurry back upstairs, face burning. Damn mother and her mind-reading. So what if you were doing this for a boy? It’s not to get him to _like_ you or anything. It’s to show him up! To make him regret singling you out and teasing you that first day. To make him eat his words. As you run through and practice what you can remember from the class, you imagine the look on Guzma’s face when you nail the routine in front of him. That same mean sort of satisfaction wells up in your chest and you revel in it as you shower and get ready for bed.

As you snuggle into your bedsheets and drift off to sleep, the scenario you’ve been imagining shifts. Instead of you showing up Guzma with a perfected routine, you replace Plumeria in Team Skull’s performance. He pulls you into his arms and lifts you off your feet like he had with her, but there’s an intense fire to his gaze now. His hands linger around your waist and electricity chases his touch. The dream version of yourself is graceful and badass, and stomps out the routine with perfect precision. Everyone’s eyes are on you.

The fantasy bleeds into the dream as you sink into the warm embrace of sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

The next few weeks pass without incident. You continue classes at the rec center and slowly but surely, you start to see noticeable improvement in your dancing. You leave each class drenched in sweat and feeling like you can barely stand, but the impressed look in Guzma’s eye is worth it. Even Bubbles, the mr. mime, seems to take notice of your progress. It gives you the wiggliest eyebrows ever whenever it sees you.

Of course, stealing into the auditorium to spy on Team Skull’s rehearsals is a bonus.

That first time you had seen them, they were already pretty good, and they’ve only improved. Except for Guzma and Plumeria. They nail all the moves, but no matter how often they practice it, the routine still seems stiff and boring. The worst part is you can’t even tell them what you think of it. If they find out you’re spying on them, they’ll probably get a restraining order against you. You want to die of embarrassment just thinking about it. So it’s your little secret for now.

It’s on one such day, with you hunkered low in the furthest row of seats, that something happens.

It’s Guzma and Plumeria’s solo. As if sensing something not quite right with the routine, the two of them have been focusing more and more on that particular part. They run through it multiple times per rehearsal now, and each time the mechanicality of it gnaws at you. You want to jump up from your spot and shout in frustration. Even Plumeria’s salazzle, Scarlet, seems agitated by their lack of improvement. She paces the edge of the stage while they practice, chittering.

That frustration seems to be contagious. As the routine practice continues on, the tension between them mounts. After a particularly nasty failure of a run through, Guzma jerks away from Plumeria with a wordless shout of rage. He picks up a nearby stool with one hand and hurls it full-force off the stage and into the empty audience chairs, snarling angrily in a language you can’t understand. The stool hits the auditorium chairs with an ear-shattering clatter, and everyone but Plumeria jumps in shock. Scarlet hisses. With a growl, Guzma turns his back to the auditorium and squats, burying his face in his hands.

No one moves. A few of the members of Team Skull exchange nervous glances.

Although Plumeria’s anger is much more contained than Guzma’s, you can tell even from this distance that she’s just as pissed. She paces from one end of the stage to the other, fuming like a caged persian. She’s winded and glistening with sweat and any sane woman would call it a day, but you’re starting to understand Plumeria is one not entirely a sane woman. She mutters in that same unfamiliar language, fists on her hips.

“One more time. Then we can call it quits for today, Guz. I _know_ we can get this.”

Guzma lifts his head from his hands, glowering at her over his shoulder. With a low, long sigh, he stands, sheds his black hoodie, and tosses it to the ground. Someone turns on the CD player to the correct track. There’s no concurrent rehearsal of routines now, no flurry of extraneous movement. It’s only Guzma and Plumeria, moving together across the stage, all eyes on them. But the intensity is wrong. Before it was merely nonexistent; now it’s frustrated and angry and much, much too fast.

They move into a particularly tricky part of the routine where Guzma has to lift and catch Plumeria in the same fluid motion. A move they’ve nailed without issue in the weeks prior, but today is different. It’s impossible to tell who exactly misses their mark, but suddenly everything has gone horribly wrong. Plumeria catches herself at an odd angle, and you swear you hear the crunch of bone. Immediately, she crumples to the floor, clutching her rapidly swelling ankle, and screaming in pain. Guzma is on his knees beside her looking panicked and sickened, bellowing apologies over her anguished yelling. Scarlet rushes to the aid of her person, hissing in rage at anyone who gets too close. The rest of Team Skull is frozen in shock.

You are the only one with any sense to get help. You leap to your feet, your duffel bag flying off your lap, and you bolt out the auditorium. The rec center has a nursing station near the administrative office at the front. Hopefully the nurses haven’t all gone home yet. Breathlessly, you burst into the room, startling two middle-aged nurses in the middle of a conversation. A chansey appears from the back room, eyes wide.

“Injured… injured, someone’s injured. She… she fell!” you pant, clutching a stitch in your side. “Audit… in the auditorium!”

The two nurses leap to their feet and rush past you, the chansey waddling after them. The four of you hurry back to the auditorium, and you explain between gulps of air what had happened. By the time you return, the rest of Team Skull has crowded around Plumeria, who hasn’t moved from where she fell. The nurses push past them, the chansey calms Scarlet the salazzle, and you finally get a good look at Plumeria’s injury. Your stomach turns at the sight of it. The ankle is swelling and it’s starting to turn blue-black. The nurses swoop down on her, shooing everyone away.

“Oh, yeah, that’s definitely broken.”

“Hey! How in the fuck --” Guzma has noticed your presence. He’s staring at you with bewildered eyes, nose wrinkled in anger and confusion.

You open your mouth to respond, to make some excuse, but the nurses are taking command of the situation and he is, mercifully, distracted. While one nurse calls an ambulance, the other gingerly helps Plumeria onto her one good foot, allowing her to lean heavily on her shoulder. One slow, painful step at a time, they ease Plumeria from the auditorium. The remaining Team Skull members hover uncertainly around the whole procession. When the ambulance arrives, the paramedics help guide her and Scarlet into the back, give Guzma information on the hospital she’s going to, and drive off.

The little conglomeration of dancers and nurses stand in the empty parking lot for awhile. Eventually, the nurses and their chansey leave to lock up their office, the Team Skull members disperse to cars or bus stops, and you are left alone with the boss himself.

He doesn’t speak or move for a long time, but you can feel the anger radiating off him like a hot bath. With his hands stuffed into the pockets of his sweatpants and his back hunched, he stares down the road where the ambulance disappeared. The last vestiges of sunset melt away into the cool blue of early evening. 

He startles you with a sigh. “Aight, well… let’s go.” And without further preamble, he turns and walks away from you.

You blink after him, but stay put. “Wh-where are we going?”

He turns on his heel and starts walking backward away from you. “We gotta go see Plumes, don’t we? Make sure she gets treated right. So c’mon.”

Still confused, you hurry after him. He leads you around the back of the rec center to the employee parking lot, where there are a still a few cars parked. He fishes a set of keys out of the pocket of his hoodie, and approaches an old SUV, dark purple in color, the tail of which is positively _slathered_ in stickers. 

As he slides into the driver’s seat and starts the car, your phone starts vibrating in your pocket. Fumbling with the handle of the car, you pull it out as you get into the passenger’s seat. It’s a phone call from your mom. In all the chaos, you had barely even realized just how late it is. She must be worried sick. But are you really going to answer it now, with an upset Guzma in the car next to you?

Biting your lip, you decline the call and immediately compose a text.

_ <<sorry mom i forgot to call you. something happened at the rec center, someone got injured. gonna be home late>> _

_ <<omg honey r u ok?>> _

“Who you textin’?” Guzma’s voice startles you with its abruptness and you’re momentarily torn away from the conversation. 

You lift your gaze from your screen and look at him. “Oh, my mom. It’s a bit later than when I normally come home and she got worried.”

He shoots you an unreadable glance and doesn’t respond. You wait for a beat to see if he has further questions. When he remains silent, you return your gaze to the phone screen.

_ <<i’ll be home soon i hope don’t worry>> _

_ <<who r u w/?>> _

You cast a nervous glance at Guzma once more.

With both hands almost white-knuckled on the steering wheel and an intense glower to his face, he is the very picture of road rage. You take a minute to look him over, to study some of his features that you didn’t see up close before. He’s very handsome. With a nice, square jaw dusted with light stubble and an angular nose, he could almost be a model. One of those edgy, rebellious models. You suddenly remember your true reason for doing this in the first place.

He catches you staring at him and arches a brow curiously in your direction.

Cheeks flaming, your gaze snaps back to your phone. You hurriedly type out one last message and hit send.

_ <<just a friend mom don’t worry about it>> _

“So…” Guzma clears his throat, grey eyes flicking to you and then returning to the road. “Guess we oughta address the donphan in the room. How long you been spyin’ on our rehearsals?”

Oh no. The conversation you’ve been dreading since this whole thing started. Your throat feels suddenly very dry. You swallow thickly and try to assemble your features in a calm, curious expression.

“O-Only a few…” Your voice peters out and you clear your throat. “Weeks?” You want to die.

“ _Auwē!_ That’s kinda creepy.” He shoots you another glance, one eyebrow raised. The barest hint of a smile plays about his lips. You’re not sure if he’s _teasing_ you or if you’re imagining it. 

“Listen, I was just curious and then it turned into this whole thing where I looked forward to watching and I —“

“So what d‘ya think?” He cuts across your self-conscious babbling. “Pretty good, right?” Now his expression turns nearly smug. He flashes you a toothy, almost manic grin.

“Uh…” You grimace. Now is not the time to be lying to him. “Yeah, I mean, most of it.”

In an instant, his smug expression melts away. His eyebrows furrow. “The fuck you mean, ‘most of it’? We got the best routine of any group I seen.”

“Well… the part with you and Plumeria is.” How to delicately put this? “Not the best.”

This was clearly the _wrong_ thing to say. Guzma wrinkles his nose and saddles you with an angry, incredulous glare. A string of angrily muttered words in that same unfamiliar language escapes him. With a low sigh that sounds more like a growl of frustration, the anger melts away from him as suddenly as it had appeared. He seems to momentarily sag under the weight of his own melancholy.

“Yeah, I know. Just feels so stiff, right?” He shoots you a plaintive, pained glance.

“Kinda, yeah.”

He scrubs at his undercut with his fingernails and blows out another sigh. “Don’t matter how many times we run through it, it’s just… awful.”

“The mechanics of it are solid, I mean… both you and Plumeria are great dancers. The routine is just kind of meant to be intimate and you aren’t… lovers.” You pause for a beat and try to make your voice sound light and casual. “A-Are you?”

He gives you a quick look, his expression guarded. “No, we ain’t. Not since we was kids.”

A tiny thrill shoots through and you want to give a whoop of happiness, but you keep yourself composed. “Yeah, that’s the problem. Both of you can be near perfect dancers but the passion just isn’t there.” You chance a glimpse at him and his brow is furrowed in intense concentration. Either he’s taking your advice to heart or he’s trying to resist yelling at you.

The conversation lapses into an awkward silence.

Desperate for something to do, you pull out your phone and begin mindlessly surfing your social media. A part of you wants to send Leslie a text, let her know the situation. Sensing the discomfort, Guzma leans forward and turns on the radio to fill the silence. A soft, slow love song, a classic rock ballad begins drifting from the speakers. Admittedly, it’s one of your favorite songs, but given the recent topic of conversation, it feels more than a little uncomfortable. He hastily switches the station to heavy metal.

Eventually, you pull into the hospital parking lot. After parking, the pair of you make your way inside, where he approaches the middle-aged receptionist. 

“Uh, I’m looking for Plumeria Francine? Came in with an ankle injury and a mean salazzle?”

The receptionist looks up from her computer. She peers imperiously over the rim of her fuschia glasses at him. You can tell from her expression that she is forming some judgements of his character. Her eyes flick momentarily to you, and you rub anxiously at your arm. You know this woman is thinking unkind things about both of you, but she says nothing.

Guzma stuffs his hands in his pocket and hunches, casting a glowering stare at the counter.

The receptionist turns back to her computer, punches in something, and then gestures down the hallway to your left. “Down the hall, take the elevator up two floors. Room 1014. Knock before entering and don’t cause trouble.”

Guzma opens his mouth as if he intends to respond but seems to think better of it. Instead he just turns on his heel and wordlessly heads towards the elevator. You scurry after him. 

You stand next to him while the elevator moves to greet you. You can’t shake the feeling that you should say something. 

“...Hey, um…”

He glares at you, brows furrowed, mouth set in a hard line. 

Immediately, you regret speaking at all, and shrink back a little. “Sorry…”

He heaves a sigh and shakes his head. All of the previous anger melts away and for a moment he just looks tired. His brow remains furrowed. “Forget it, aight? Old ladies always think I’m gonna set the buildin’ on fire.” He raises and lowers one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “I’m used to it.”

“...You don’t have to be.”

This seems to take him off guard. His eyebrows temporarily unfurrow and he blinks at you. In a rare moment, he seems to smile a bit, and it’s genuine. With a little chuckle, he scrubs at his undercut and buries his hands in his pockets.

His smile makes your chest feel weird and squirmy and good.

The elevator bell dings, and the doors open. A flood of blisseys greet you. When they’re clear, Guzma ducks into the elevator first, and holds an arm out in front of the door sensor for you. The unexpected chivalry has your chest feeling that squirmy feeling again. You scurry onto the elevator and the doors close. It’s a smaller than average elevator, made for one or two people, and in such close quarters, the awkwardness mounts. You find the walls suddenly enrapturing and your face feels warm.

It feels like the longest elevator ride of your life, and the lack of conversation doesn’t make it any shorter. When the doors finally open, you’re grateful for him letting you out first.

You find the room with little trouble. Plumeria is sitting on a bed, the leg of her sweats rolled up to her knee while an older man in a white coat examines her ankle. Her salazzle is curled up protectively at her side, quietly hissing its displeasure. A clefairy wearing an apron and a little hat on its head holds a tray of instruments. Guzma enters, looking concerned.

“Guzma!” Plumeria says, offering him a grin that’s only a little bit painful. 

The doctor looks up as the pair of you enter. He arches a brow as Guzma wraps Plumeria into a hug. “Are you responsible for this girl, young man?”

“...Yeah, kinda. Is she gonna be okay?”

“Ankle’s broken, Guz.” Plumeria gives him a grimace that acts as an unspoken apology. “Gonna have to get a cast.”

 _Can’t do any dancing in a cast._ The thought comes to you of its own accord, and it sends shards of ice through your veins.

It seems the same thought has entered Guzma’s mind as well. He simply stares, looking shell-shocked. Neither of them speak, but it’s as if they’re having an entire conversation through just their locked gaze. It almost feels like you’re intruding on something private. You avert your gaze to your shoelaces.

The pair of you are with Plumeria through the whole process. X-rays are taken and it’s confirmed: her ankle has a hairline fracture. No walking for at least 6 weeks. Certainly no dancing. When it’s all said and done, Plumeria leaves the hospital on crutches with a bright pink cast from the knee down. You and Guzma walk her out to the parking lot, her faithful salazzle following closely behind. You’re pleased to see she doesn’t seem to struggle to move on the crutches. You get the impression this isn’t the first time she’s used them.

“Fuck, what the fuck are we gonna do?” Guzma snarls, when you’re clear of the front doors.

“Well.” Plumeria lowers herself slowly onto a bench outside the front doors and looks at her cast with a sigh. Scarlet promptly lays beside her, placing her head in her master’s lap. “We don’t really have much of a choice. Even if you redo the routine, we’d be a man down in the squad.”

“ _Fuck._ ” He squats down beside the bench and buries his face in his hands. “Fuck, we were so _close._ ” The utter heartbreak in his voice kills you inside.

Plumeria puts a comforting hand on Guzma’s shoulder. In a soothing tone of voice, she murmurs something in that language they both seem to share. It sounds almost melodic. He visibly relaxes, dragging his palms down the length of his face with a ragged, bone-tired sigh.

Again, you feel as if you’re intruding on something private that shouldn’t be watched. You turn your gaze to the dark parking lot. Eyes averted, you lose yourself in thought, contemplating the situation. A wild idea takes hold of you suddenly. No matter how hard you try to come up with alternate solutions, this is the only one that seems viable.

“What if someone took her place?” you blurt out.

They both turn and stare at you. 

“Well, yeah, but who? Our other friends aren’t really dancers. Or they’re busy with their own squads.” Guzma snorts out a mirthless chuckle. “Who’s gonna do it? You?”

A thrill of adrenaline spikes in your veins. 

“...That’s not a terrible idea,” Plumeria says, twisting a little to look over the bench at you. 

Both you and Guzma give her an incredulous look. Guzma’s expression looks as if he’s concerned for her mental health.

“ _What?_ It was a _joke_ , Plumes!”

“Guzma, you’re a great partner and a great teacher, you can lead anybody!” Plumeria crosses her arms over her chest.

“N-No, I can’t even do the cha-cha slide!” Your face feels hot and anxiety has your heart pumping much too fast.

“See? They can’t even do the cha-cha slide, Plumes! They can’t do it!”

Despite your own insistence that you can’t do this, Guzma _telling_ you that you can’t makes anger rise in your chest. Your brows furrow and you fold your arms over your chest. You certainly don’t appreciate him writing you off so quickly. You’re more determined than ever to prove him wrong now.

“It’s either that or forfeit, dude.” Plumeria gives him an apologetic look, and fishes her phone from her pocket.

Guzma blows out a long, defeated sigh and straightens. “Yeah… You have a point. So…” He twists and looks at you over his shoulder. His expression is determined. “You really wanna do this?”

“Yes.” Your lack of hesitation startles everyone, including yourself. “I-I don’t want your team to fail. You guys are really good.”

“You’ve seen us?” Plumeria looks up from her phone screen, and arches a curious brow.

“Yeah, I watched you guys… sometimes.” A blush rises to your cheeks. Probably best not to reveal just _how often_ you’ve watched their rehearsals. “You guys are amazing!”

“Except me and Guz’s part, right?” 

You wince. “W-Well, that could use a little work.”

She nods, a contemplative shadow crossing her face. “Yeah, we suck.”

“No!” You scurry around the bench and sit next to Plumeria, startling Scarlet away in the process. “The routine is good, I promise. You’ll win for sure.”

“Do you even know what we’re competing in?” Plumeria snorts and shakes her head. “This ain’t some podunk amateur hour, yanno. We’ve worked for years and we have a chance at the _nationals_.” 

“We might never get this chance again,” Guzma says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He casts a brooding glare out into the distance. “We were so close.”

“I can do this.” You put your hand on Plumeria’s shoulder and meet her gaze. Your expression is determined and fierce. “You guys will go to the nationals, if I have any say in it.”

Plumeria’s sullen expression slowly lifts into a little smile. She looks over at Guzma, whose expression is decidedly less hopeful. He heaves a dramatic sigh.

“Fine. We start tomorrow.”

Fear and excitement in equal measure race through your system and you can’t help but grin at him. Despite his brooding, it seems your enthusiasm is infectious. His expression lessens and he manages a begrudging smile in return.

“Well, I can drive ya home, Plumes,” Guzma offers, scrubbing at his undercut.

“Nah, I texted my mom before ya’ll got here.” She gestures to a minivan that’s pulling into the dark parking lot as she speaks. “Besides, you got someone else to take home.” She winks at him. 

Is he blushing?

With little effort, she levers herself to standing with the help of her crutches, and makes her way towards her mom’s car with Scarlet scuttling after her. As she eases into the passenger seat and shuts the door, she waves at the pair of you from the window. Guzma waves back and watches as the car leaves the parking lot.

“Aight, let’s get you home before ya moms calls the cops on my ass.” He smirks and heads towards the car.

After giving him some basic directions, the pair of you settle in for the 30 minute ride from Ryme City to the suburbs. Guzma fiddles with the radio for a moment and settles on a metal station. You simply turn and stare out the window. For several minutes, neither of you speak. A small part of you is wondering how you’re going to be able to dance with him if you can’t even talk to him. You’re busy thinking of how you’re going to make a complete fool out of yourself and what the hell possessed you to do this when Guzma breaks the silence.

“Hey, um. I-I really appreciate you doin’ this for us. Mahalo plenty, yanno?”

You turn away from the window to look at him.

“I know I’m kind of an asshole sometimes, I’m sure you seen my temper get the best of me.” Now he’s definitely blushing. With the darkness punctuated by the yellow of the street light, you can see his cheeks tinged pink. “But I dunno, I think it can work. You seem fuckin’ determined as hell, yanno? That’s gotta count for somethin’.”

You smile, that weird squirmy feeling returning to your chest. You turn back to the window, watching the street lights speed past.

“I hope I don’t let you guys down.”

“No way. It’s amazin’ to me that you’d do somethin’ like this. I don’t think I’ve… ever had someone do somethin’ that nice for me.” 

“I really want you guys to win! And maybe I can learn to control my dumbass body at the same time.” A nervous, awkward little laugh escapes you as you glance at him.

“Dumbass ain’t the word I’d use.”

He spoke under his breath but you still caught it. Your eyebrows shoot up and you jerk your head around to look at him with wide, shocked eyes. Did he just--?

He gives a bark of laughter, eyes almost manic. “Ah, fuck, that uh… I sure did say that out loud, didn’t I?”

_You sure did. But did you mean it?_

He clears his throat and regrips the steering wheel, and a comfortable silence lapses between you two. Your mind races the rest of the drive home, overwhelmed with the plethora of information this evening has given you. With some more instruction, Guzma finds your house and pulls into the driveway. As you get out of the car, something hits you.

“Shit! My mom’s car! I left it at the rec center. Oh, god, she’s gonna kill me…”

“If you give me your keys, I’ll have my man Max take care of it. He’ll have it back tomorrow morning before she has to get to work.”

You hesitate. Your trust in Guzma is unimpeachable, but this “Max”? If something happens to your mom’s car, she’ll absolutely break your kneecaps. But what choice do you have, really? You fish out your mom’s keys from your pocket and deposit them in Guzma’s waiting hand.

“Please tell him to be careful.”

“Yo, relax. I ain’t about to let my pinch hitter get their kneecaps broken now.” Guzma flashes you a grin. “I’ll be here bright and early tomorrow morning, so be ready by 7 am.”

 _Christ, 7 am? That’s so early._ You feel tired just thinking about it. Numbly, you just nod your head. You’re a bit overwhelmed with the situation. 

“See ya.” And with no further preamble, he pulls out of the driveway and disappears down the road, fading from view just as your mother steps out onto the back porch, wearing her robe and pajamas. 

“Oh. H-Hi, Mom.”

“So what happened to you tonight? And where’s my car?”

Feeling bone-weary, you slink past her into the house and set about the arduous task of explaining the night’s events to her. She’s silent for the entire explanation, simply sitting at the kitchen table with her mouth drawn into a hard line. The whole thing just pours rom you in one big rush, and when it’s all said, you feel better. Still tired, but sharing the whole craziness of the past few hours with your mom lifts the weight from your shoulder.

“And so I kind of… volunteered to learn the routine and take Plumeria’s place.”

Your mom blinks in shock. “You did _what?_ ”

“Yeah, I know, it’s probably really stupid. But, Mom, they’re _really_ good and they deserve at least a chance to get into the nationals. And if I can help them get there, then --”

Suddenly, your mother is embracing you. Confused, you slowly return the embrace, slipping your arms around her waist. She squeezes you tightly for a moment or two, before withdrawing. Her hands rest on your shoulders as she appraises you with warm eyes and a watery smile.

“Sweetheart, I am _so_ proud of you. You saw people in need and took the initiative to help them. You’re going to kick the shit out of this competition, hon, and I’m going to be there to cheer you on the whole way.” 

Your mother’s sudden but unconditional support hits you unexpectedly hard. Throat constricted around unspoken words of gratitude, you bury your face in her shoulder. Knowing that your mom will be there to help you through this undoubtedly difficult situation makes it seem much less scary. You breathe a heavy sigh against your mom’s hair, and when you finally withdraw, the last of the adrenaline seems to leave you. You feel as if you weigh a thousand pounds.

Your mom kisses your forehead and with one arm around your shoulders, guides you toward your room.

“C’mon, sweetie, you get to bed. That hot dance instructor’s gonna be here bright and early tomorrow and I want to see you get all embarrassed in front of him.”

_“Mother!”_


	4. Chapter 4

“No, man, it goes step, slide-slide, step. You ain’t even tryin’!”

“I told you I can barely even floss.”

“Fuckin’ gross.”

“I mean the _dance_ , Guzma.”

It’s been a few days since you agreed to take Plumeria’s place in Team Skull. True to Guzma’s word, someone had returned your mother’s car mostly unscathed before she needed to leave for work. You had been expecting a _person,_ but you’re absolutely bewildered when a hulking machoke steps out of the car and hands the keys to your startled mother. The Slayer CD left in the player gave her quite a scare when she turned on the radio. Your laughter at her shell-shocked expression quickly died when Guzma pulled into your driveway behind her, however. Then it was her turn to laugh at your reddened face.

He’d driven you back to the rec center and now your classes have doubled. Your usual classes with others during the day, and then practice with the squad. Although the latter of which is mostly one-on-one with Guzma himself. It’s been three days and you’re still nervous every time he approaches you. To start with, you have been doing just some basic moves that will eventually bleed into the routine itself, and you’re overwhelmed. Suddenly the fantasy of you taking Plumeria’s place in that routine is very much real and it has your heart palpitating.

“Alright, so it’s step, slide-slide, step, then reverse it. Slide, step-step, slide.” He moves over to the stereo and restarts the song. “Don’t move till you hear the second beat.”

You breathe out a heavy sigh. It wouldn’t be so bad if the rest of Team Skull _and_ Plumeria weren’t watching from the sidelines. They pretend like they’re focusing on their own individual pieces but you know they’re watching your disappointing progress.

Guzma seems to pick up on your unease. He throws glares at all the gawking Team Skull members. “Yo, all ya’ll fuck off for a bit, okay? Get some water.”

Everyone but Plumeria and her salazzle filters from the auditorium and your adrenaline seems to ease.

“I’m sorry, I’m nervous.” Your face feels hot. It’s been like this since the first day you agreed. Every time you fail to get the simplest of steps correct, regret floods your entire system like a tidal wave.

“You gotta just relax, okay? You’re just startin’ out. You ain’t gonna be the best, but you’ll get there.” He moves into position beside you, ready to correct your stance and movement. 

It’s grueling, tough work. You’re more out of shape than you realized. At the end of every session, you’re winded and your legs feel like jelly. After a particularly long session -- Guzma simply would not allow you to stop until you got the steps just right -- you’re ready to head home, take a long shower, and collapse onto your bed. Muscles aching, you lean over to heft your duffel bag when someone calls your name. You turn to see a member of Team Skull standing there, looking at you expectantly. Her rattata chatters from its perch on her shoulder.

“You talking to me?”

“Yeah, I said your name. didn’t I?” She folds her arms over her chest and blows a large bubble of gum. This particular Team Skull member has a notably sour disposition towards you, but you have no idea why. You’ve barely spoken to her. Today she has her bright pink hair tied up in twin buns. She blows another large bubble.

“What’s up?” You adjust the strap of your duffel. It feels more than a little awkward; do you even know this girl’s name?

“The boss said he wanted to see you for a sec before you left. He’s in the director’s office.”

“Oh, okay, thanks. Um. I was thinking that maybe since we’re going to be working together that I should --”

“I appreciate what you’re doin’ for us and all, but…” She wrinkles her nose. “Don’t bother trying to make friends. You’ll be gone in a few months so there’s no point in getting attached, right? Go see Guz in the director’s office.”

She steps around you and walks off, leaving you standing there in a stunned, hurt silence. That certainly was abrupt. Does _all_ of Team Skull feel this way? A tight, uneasy feeling settles in the pit of your stomach, the kind you usually get when your social anxiety rears its ugly head again. Trying your hardest to tamp down the feeling, you make your way to the director’s office. As you approach, you hear voices. _Loud_ voices. You hesitate outside the door and listen.

“--fuckin’ do this, Nanu, it’s horseshit!”

“Your classes have been losing attendance at a steady rate, Mr. Bromley.” The second male voice is deeper, older. The owner sounds patient but weary. “If it dips too much, I won’t have much of a choice. I _will_ cut your class from the curriculum here.”

There’s a clattering, like several things hitting the ground at once. You flinch, imagining Guzma sweeping everything on a desk to the floor.

“That’s not going to do much to improve your case, Mr. Bromley. And mark my words, Hala will hear about this, too. Get your numbers up or we will have no choice.”

Suddenly, the door flies open and bangs against the wall. You jump back, startled, but have no time for further reaction. Seconds later, Guzma stalks out of the door, positively fuming, snarling dark, angry words under his breath in that same unfamiliar language. Hands shoved deep in his pockets and shoulders hunched, he is the very picture of rage. He takes two steps before noticing you standing there. There’s a manic look to his eye as he regards you.

“...You wanna get the fuck outta here?”

 _And go where?_ “Sure.” You suddenly decide that you could go anywhere, as long as he’s there.

His hand materializes from nowhere and grabs yours. The next thing you know, he’s guiding you through the halls and out the front doors. The two of you meander through the parked cars until you come to that familiar dark purple SUV. He stops beside it, brow knit and mouth set into a hard line. Your hand is still in his, palms pressed together. A part of you wonders if he even notices. His hands are large and square and warm and utterly bewildering, all at once.

“...How much of that did you hear?” He speaks quietly, and doesn’t look at you.

“I got the gist.”

“Ah, fuck.” His hand slips from yours and he moves around the car to plant his forehead on the hood with a dull, hollow thunk. “What is _wrong_ with you, Guzma??” He lifts his head and then lets it drop a few more times.

You flinch with each thunk of his forehead on the hood of the car, and move forward to stop him. He straightens reluctantly, burying his hands in his pockets and glaring dejectedly away from you.

“Nothing is wrong with you, Guzma.”

He scoffs, and shakes his head. “Just get in, okay?” He moves around the car and slides into the driver’s seat. You mirror him and slide into the passenger’s seat. To avoid further car issues, Guzma’s been picking you up from home to drive you to the rec center several times a week. Today is one such day. The drive is silent for what feels like an eternity before you summon the courage to speak up.

“So do you have any ideas to get your attendance up?”

He casts you a glare. “No, not particularly. I’m guessin’ you do?”

“Well, there’s always social media advertising. Do you have a Twitter for the class?”

He wrinkles his nose and shifts in his seat. “No. Plumes is always tryin’ to get me to make one of those but I didn’t figure there was much of a point. Social media’s kinda stupid.”

“It could really help you get the word out about your class. And we could try an ad in a local paper, too. We can do this, Guz.”

“If you think it’ll help.” He sounds decidedly unenthused.

You fish your phone out of your pocket and navigate to the Twitter app. The conversation lapses into silence yet again. It isn’t until you look up from the screen and notice that you’re in an unfamiliar part of town that you get a little concerned.

“Um. Guzma? Where are we?”

“Didn’t Frankie tell you?”

“Frankie?”

“Yeah, pink haired chick, always chewing gum, rattata permanently attached to her ass? I told her to tell you to meet me at the director’s office.” He arches a brow at you. 

“Oh. I didn’t know what her name was until now.” You flush in embarrassment. “She didn’t tell me what you wanted, only to come find you.”

“Well, sometimes after practice, we get together and chill. I thought this’d be a good way for you to meet the gang, yanno?” He raises and lowers one shoulder in a noncommittal shrug. “I can take ya back home if you’re not feelin’ it.”

“No, I want to meet them! What kinda stuff do you guys do?”

“Usually? We go to Plumeria’s house, drink, smoke weed, and play Mario Kart.” He glances at you, almost apprehensive but trying to play it nonchalant. “Is that… uh… cool with you?”

“Yeah, it’s cool! I’m not 12, you know.”

“Hey, man, I don’t know what all you’re into. If it ain’t your thing, we ain’t gonna pressure you or nothin’. “ He shoots you a grin. “We’re assholes but we’re not _that bad.”_

You have to admit, you’re just a little nervous. Although you’re no stranger to drinking, you’ve never actually had weed before. According to some of your other friends, it’s really not a big deal -- just something that helps you relax. You’re kind of curious. As the sun starts to set, Guzma pulls into the driveway of a squat brick house across the street from a park. Childrens’ screams of delight reach your ears as you exit Guzma’s car. The house is well kept, with impeccable flower beds lining the fences that surround the backyard. A pikipek bath sits nestled amongst shrubbery in the back corner, and a little brick patio sits just off the driveway, perfectly appointed with chairs and a table for entertaining. A gengar skulks in the shadows of the backyard, grinning as it lies in wait for unsuspecting pokemon to land nearby.

Plumeria, now sporting a newer cast, bright yellow, and only one crutch, leans out the back door as Guzma approaches. “Ya’ll took long enough.” Suddenly, her voice rises in volume and she shouts across the yard.  
“ _Baxter, you stay away from that fuckin’ pidgey and I mean it!_ ” 

The gengar jumps in surprise and scuttles back into the shadow of the bushes, his grin now twisted into an unhappy frown. The pidgey in question squawks and flaps away.

“Sorry, I had to deal with Nanu. His pussy’s way too dry to be ridin’ me like this.” 

“Guz, what the fuck.” Plumeria wrinkles her nose. “I assume he’s still sayin’ he’ll cancel your classes?”

You and Guzma follow Plumeria into the house. It’s moderately decorated, following in the tastes of your average middle-class mother. In fact, it’s not too dissimilar from your own house. Guzma moves immediately to the fridge, retrieves a beer, and seats himself at the dining table.

“Yeah and I think he might actually do it this time. He said attendance for my classes is low and he’ll use that as a bullshit excuse to cancel me.” He cracks open the cold beer and takes a long sip.

“Well, you know what I’m gonna say the solution to that is, right?”

Guzma belches and gestures to you. “Yeah, I’m workin’ on it.”

You offer Plumeria a little smile and wave your phone, which is still open on the Twitter app. “I was gonna make a Facebook page for the class, too, I just need a catchy name.” Truth be told, you’ve been wracking your brain for name ideas ever since the conversation came up. 

Plumeria sits down in another kitchen chair. “What about something simple? Skull Dance?”

Guzma wrinkles his nose. “No, that sucks.”

Plumeria punches him in the arm.

While Guzma rubs his injured bicep, you quickly Google a generator for dance troupes or classes. Several ads later, you find one that’s good and begin rattling off names you find. Guzma fetches the remaining 6 pack of beer from the fridge and gestures to the steps down to the basement. Eyes glued to your phone, you head down the stairs. The basement is comfortable and low-lit, with a couch and a loveseat and an armchair all situated around a big screen television; a perfect hangout for rowdy young people looking to drink and smoke weed and play video games. There’s an aquarium full of corsola and pyukumuku situated near the back of the room, blacklit to give the whole room a eerie glow in the low light.

You barely notice your surroundings as you scroll through more name generator results. “Dancing Dots?”

“No way.”

“The Sweat Spot.”

“Gross, what the fuck? Can we try to find something related to skull? That’s kinda my thing, yanno? Team Skull?” With a weary grunt, he all but collapses onto the loveseat, props one foot on the coffee table, and places the 6-pack on the floor. Without really thinking, you sit beside him on the edge of the loveseat.

“That might be hard to fit in… what about… Bop til You Drop?”

“Dude, that fuckin’ _sucks._ ”

“Well, why don’t _you_ think of a name, then?” you snap, turning to glare at him over your shoulder. “It’s _your_ class.”

From the bewildered look on his face, he’s unused to being spoken to this way by other members of his team. Plumeria’s eyes go wide, and they flick from you to him and back again. She stifles a snort of a snicker in her can of beer.

Guzma shoots her a dirty look, then returns his attention to you. “Aight, how hard can it be? What about… Beats n Bones?”

Plumeria snorts on her sip of beer and after recovering from a mild fit of choking, she bursts into uncontrollable laughter. Guzma’s expression grows even more volatile. He picks up a throw pillow and hucks it at her. Without even a slight interruption to her laughter, she easily catches it and clutches it to her chest like a life preserver. Even you are hiding a smile behind your phone at this point.

“The fuck you laughin’ at?!” Guzma snarls, his cheeks coloring.

“Are-are you teaching people to _dance_ or are you teachin’ people to _jerk off?_ ” She falls backward onto the couch with another howl of laughter and Guzma folds his arms over his chest. 

Teasingly, you nudge him with your elbow, meet his gaze, and give him a little smile. His sour expression slowly melts away and his lips turn upward in a slight, crooked smile. He playfully rolls his eyes. More words in that unfamiliar language are uttered.

“Aight, aight, so it’s pretty fuckin’ hard.”

“Let’s just name it something simple for now. Pop dancing 101. Short, sweet, and to the point.” You lean back into the couch, returning to your phone screen. Your shoulder bumps against Guzma’s. “We can always change it later if we come up with something better.”

“I like this one, Guz. They’re smart as fuck.” Plumeria picks up a controller on the coffee table and the television flickers to life with a push of a button. Scarlet saunters downstairs on her hind legs, takes her usual place next to Plumeria on the couch, and begins her arduous grooming.

You flush at Plumeria’s compliment, and pretend like you don’t see Guzma watching you with those intense grey eyes of his. You punch in the name, suddenly very aware of his proximity to you. You know your face is steadily turning various shades of red as he watches.

Luckily, at that moment, you’re saved from further scrutiny by the arrival of Team Skull. They barrel down the basement steps in one raucous, rowdy rush, laughing and yelling exuberantly over one another. They all come to a complete halt when they see you sitting on the loveseat next to Guzma.

The pink haired one, Frankie, speaks up first.

“Yo, G, what the fuck is goin’ on? What’re they doin’ here?” Her rattata chatters angrily in agreement.

He gets to his feet and moves to stand between everyone. “Chill, guys. Since they’re gonna be workin’ with us, I figured we could get to know one another, ease up on some of this animosity.” He pointedly glares at Frankie. She rolls her eyes. You want to disappear beneath the couch cushions.

“Fine.” Frankie sounds reluctant, and folds her arms over her chest. “They ain’t gonna narc on us for smokin’, right?”

Guzma twists to look at you expectantly over his shoulder.

Quickly, you give your head a shake. “No, no, I don’t care. Go for it.”

This seems to be a good enough answer. The others seem to noticeably relax, and they all find places to sit in the basement. Frankie pulls from her hoodie pocket a rolled-up plastic baggie and tosses it onto the coffee table. For one confusing and strange moment, you think she’s brought a growlithe turd. But then she unrolls it and reveals several chunks of a pale green… something. You assume this is weed. Fascinated but trying to act cool and disinterested, you half-watch Frankie fish a small metal cylinder from her pocket, place one of the green chunks inside, and twist it like a pepper grinder.

“Yo, who’s got the bowl?”

Someone else, a boy next to her with blue hair and a skull bandana around his neck, produces a small glass item. It almost looks the spiral of a dewgong’s horn, with pastel pink and blues running throughout the glass. Frankie swipes it from his hand, takes a pinch from the grinder, and packs it into the bowl at the end of the pipe.

A lighter is produced, and each person takes a turn inhaling from the pipe. Guzma takes a drag and then turns to you, gaze expectant. When you sit up a little and nod, he turns the pipe towards you.

“I’ll light it for ya,” he says, as you take the pipe in your mouth. “Aight, like you’re suckin’ a milkshake. Into your mouth, then inhale it into your lungs.”

You try your best to follow his instructions, but the strange intimacy of him lighting the pipe for you has your thoughts clouded. You inhale hot smoke directly into your lungs and jerk back, coughing. Guzma grins ruefully.

“Sorry, it’s hard that first time.” He cracks open another beer and hands it to you.

Grateful, you take a gulp of cold beer, swallow several times, and sit back. Everyone is staring at you, snickering, but Plumeria comes to your rescue. She picks up the controller.

“Reese, what are we playin’?”

The blue-haired boy immediately ceases snickering and looks at her with wide eyes. “Yo, I get to pick?” His face splits into an ecstatic grin.

Minutes later, you’re watching Team Skull compete in Mario Kart. It’s the most intense game you’ve ever witnessed. You’re not entirely sure if the weed is having much of an affect on you, but you do feel more relaxed. Team Skull seems pretty decent at karting, but Plumeria is the best. Nine times out of ten, she’s in first place for most of the race. Guzma’s usually second. You play for only a few matches and you’re mercilessly ground into dust. Mentally, you’re blaming the weed. If you were sober, you’d be at least ten times better. You get lucky with a blue shell at the end of the third lap in Bowser’s Castle and actually manage to win against Plumeria, just the once.

The group is stunned to silence as you cross the finish line seconds before her. Guzma’s grin is nothing short of shit-eating.

Plumeria smirks at you. “Not bad. You got lucky. Wanna rematch?”

You shake your head and push the controller towards Guzma. “Nah, better to retire when you’re on top, yanno. Go out undefeated.”

Everyone laughs. 

“Plumes, I think it’s time for a snack run. Munchies got me cravin’ some chicken tendies.” A girl with curly black hair tied in a messy bun drapes herself dramatically across Plumeria’s lap. “I’m wastin’ away, girl, I gotta get me some _tendies!”_

“Aight, then you can drive, Cleo. You’re the most sober.”

“Dope, let’s go ya’ll!” Cleo springs to her feet, and halfway up the stairs before anyone else even manages to get out of their chairs. 

“We’ll stay here and hold down the fort. Drink the rest of the beer, smoke the rest of the weed.” Guzma shoots Plumeria a shit-eating grin. She responds by flinging a pillow at his face.

Slowly, Team Skull filters from the basement until just you, Guzma, and Scarlet are left alone. He fiddles with the controller and puts a music app on the console. Quiet but energetic electronica flows from the speakers. You turn your attention to your phone, sending your mom a quick text to let her know where you are. You leave out the parts with the weed and beer. Guzma lounges beside you, nearly crushing you with the weight of his shoulder, half-lidded eyes watching the abstract visualization of the music app. He speaks without looking at you.

“Who you always talkin’ to?” 

“My mom. Letting her know where I am so she doesn’t worry.” You pry your gaze from your phone to look at his face. “Why?”

“Just wonderin’. Thought it was a boyfriend or girlfriend or somethin’.” His lip curves into a slight smile, and his eyes slide lazily to your face.

You blink at him, and for once, you manage not to blush. Why did he want to know? “No. No one like that.”

“Ain’t got one?” His eyebrows arch with curiosity.

“Why is that your business?”

He shrugs with one shoulder and levers himself out of the seat with a sort of graceless ease. “Damn, I dunno, I’m curious? Sue me.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants, and the song changes. It’s slower, gentler. Both of you look at the screen, nearly dumbfounded by the situation. Guzma recovers first.

He turns to you, head cocked to one side. “Dance with me.”

“What?”

He offers a hand to you. “C’mon, we can work on the routine a little.”

To _this_ song? It’s so much slower than the music the routine is set to. Confused but intrigued, you set your phone down and place your hand in his. Grinning, he yanks you to your feet and the momentum sends you crashing into his chest. He barely even stumbles from the impact. For the first time, you really get a feel of him. He’s solid and firm and very, very tall. The physique of a dancer, with just a little bit of chub from excess alcohol.

Your entire body feels warm. You tilt your chin up just a little to look him in the eye.

With his lips curved into a crooked smirk and his eyes half-lidded, he regards you expectantly, and you suddenly remember why you made that initial impulsive decision to enter his class. There are dark circles under his eyes and slight stubble on his jaw and he smells strongly of smoke, but they only add to his rough sort of charm. He’s close; he _has_ to feel your heart thrumming in your chest, fluttering like a mouse’s. It is very, very hard to pull away. 

But you take a deep breath, flash him a nervous smile, and do it. You take a little step back. Some small, secretive part of you mourns the loss.

“You wanted to work on the routine?”

“Yeah… yeah.” He seems to be snapping out of a trance. He clears his throat, snaps up the controller, and changes the song. This one is quicker and the tempo matches the routine’s pace much better. The pair of you spend the next few minutes going over the basic bread-and-butter moves, but now his hand lingers on your arm when he corrects your positioning. You pretend not to notice, but a tiny voice at the back of your mind is screaming in joy every time his hands touch your skin.

“You’re doin’ better,” he says, and his voice is very near your ear. “I said you’d get the hang of it, didn’t I?” You can hear the satisfied smile on his lips.

A tiny shiver ripples down your spine. He’s been this close before -- why does it feel so _intimate_ now? When you speak, you’re grateful your voice doesn’t come out in a squeak. “These are just simple moves. The stuff you and Plumeria do is --”

“That’ll come, don’t _worry_ so much.” He snickers in your ear, and his chest presses lightly against your back. “ _Auwē_ , you’re high-strung, ain’t ya?”

“...Maybe a little anxious.”

Another low chuckle, and his hands slide down your arms, showing you the proper movements. You try your hardest to concentrate on what he’s showing you, but your mind has scattered like paper in a strong breeze. You turn your head to look him in the eye. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and he flashes you a saucy, crooked grin.

Upstairs, the back door opens suddenly and a cacophony of noise interrupts the moment. You jump away from him and his husky voice and his smoky scent. But now you’re too full of nervous energy to sit down. Skin still sparking from his contact, you snatch up your phone and pretend like you’re absorbed in something on the screen. One by one, Team Skull filters back downstairs, arms laden with fast food and voices raised in exuberance. They take no notice of your nervousness.

You’re not really hungry. Your skin feels electric, permanently raised in goosebumps, and your stomach flutters every time Guzma meets your gaze. No one else seems to notice these stolen gazes from across the basement. They’re all too wrapped up in themselves and in their own conversations to pay the two of you any mind.

Eventually, the night’s festivities come to a close. Most of Team Skull is dozing where they sit. Plumeria is running through time challenges in Mario Kart. Quietly, Guzma says his goodbyes to her, and with a little jerk of his head, he gestures towards the stairs.

Oh, that’s right. He drove you here.

With your heart hammering, you collect your things, give Plumeria a goodbye wave, and head upstairs with Guzma.

“You got any perfume or body spray or anythin’?” he asks, as the pair of you make your way back to his car.

“No, not on me. Just what’s in my duffel.”

“Spare clothes?”

“Yeah, I do have some spare clothes. Why?”

“Well,” he flashes you a rueful grin as he opens the back door of his car for you. “You reek of weed. I don’t know ya moms too well but I don’t think anyone likes their kid comin’ home stinkin’ like weed.”

Oh, shit. Your mother has never really made any mention of _disliking_ weed, but Guzma has a point. You give your shirt a sniff. In the basement, the smell hadn’t been so noticeable, but out in the open air? You definitely stink of the pungent smoke.

“Shit.”

“No worries. You can change back here. Promise I won’t look.” His expression is unreadable, brows arched in a sort of nonchalant curiosity. The gleam of an unspoken challenge sparks in his eyes.

 _Well, challenge accepted._ Without breaking eye contact, you slide into the back seat, and start rummaging through your duffel for your spare clothes. Guzma closes the door behind you and moments later, the car is rumbling down the dark street towards your house. Trying very hard not to think about his eyes watching you through the rearview mirror, you hurriedly shuck off your clothes drenched in weed smoke.

“So there’s no class tomorrow, but we gotta work on the routine anyway. You… you wanna come to my place, maybe?” He scrubs at his undercut with his fingernails. “Might be kinda cramped I guess.”

“Well, my mom works all day so you can come to my place if there’s more room.”

“She won’t mind you bringin’ some stranger around when she ain’t home?”

You shift, lifting your ass out of the seat, and yank on the spare shorts. A breathless little chuckle escapes you. “Nah, she’s actually been kinda curious to meet you.”

“...She has?”

 _Shit._ “Uh, yeah. Kinda? I-I might’ve talked about your class a little.”

You catch a glimpse of Guzma’s grin in the rearview mirror as you pull your shirt on over your head. You’re never gonna live this one down, are you? Finally, you finish dressing, stuff your smelly clothes into your duffel, and clamber as gracelessly as possible into the front seat beside him. You’re a little breathless and overly warm, but dressed in decidedly less smelly clothes.

“So when will you be over tomorrow?”

“When’s mom outta there?”

“She leaves at like 9:30? Sometimes she’s a little late but it’s usually that time.”

Guzma nods, deep in thought. “Alright, dope, I’ll see you then. Oh and hey.” He fishes his phone from his pocket and tosses it to you. “Gimme your number.”

“...Why?”

He shoots you a quizzical glance. “Uh? Because I don’t have it? Makes it easier to get ahold of ya when I have a number.”

 _Oh. Yeah that does make sense._ Chagrined, you unlock his phone (“The passcode’s 696969.” “Nice.”) and create a new contact. The next few minutes are spent in silence. Eventually, Guzma pulls into your driveway once more, and you hand him back his phone before getting out.

“See ya tomorrow, bright and early!” he says with a grin, and you wave as he backs out.

Once again, your mother is there to greet you at the back door. She looks tired but smiles when you approach.

“You know, sweetheart, you’re an adult and I respect you but this coming home late as hell stuff has gotta stop.” She follows you inside, and locks the back door behind the both of you. “At least _try_ to remember to give me a text if you’ll be late so I don’t have to sit and worry.”

“Sorry, Mom, there was an intense Mario Kart showdown and I got really involved.” You retrieve a bottle of water from the fridge. “Just slipped my mind. I’m gonna do some laundry, so I’ll be up for a bit.”

“Alright, hon. Don’t stay up too late.” She kisses your forehead and disappears into her bedroom.

Hopefully she didn’t notice any odd smells to your hair.

You head into the laundry room, dump the contents of your duffel into the washing machine and get that started. When you’re finished, you realized you’re absolutely _famished._ The whole situation with Guzma had created such anxious turmoil in your stomach, it had suppressed your appetite pretty soundly. You set about making yourself a sandwich while waiting for the laundry.

As you’re spreading peanut butter onto your slice of bread, your phone chimes in your pocket. You fish it out check. A text message from an unknown number.

 _ <<ay just makin sure u didnt give me a fake number _ 😜 _ >> _

Guzma. You smile a little and with one hand, type out a response. Percy comes downstairs from his usual sleeping space, yawning and eyeing your sandwich hungrily.

_ <<i’m sorry who is this?>> _

_ <<very funny>> _

_ <<should you be texting while driving?>> _

_ <<i dont live that far from u, im home already>> _

Really? The thought that Guzma lives only a few minutes from your house is kind of thrilling. You wonder what part of town he lives in and just how far away he is. Will you ever be at his place? He’s never mentioned any sort of parents. Does he live alone? Your phone vibrates in your hand, pulling you from your train of thought.

_ <<ur mom suspect u been partyin with bad kids?>> _

You snort. 

_ <<team skull is hardly ‘bad kids’ but no she didn’t>> _

_ <<cool i woulda felt bad if i got u in trouble>> _

That warm, squirmy sort of feeling in your chest returns. It fills you with a nervous sort of energy, and you jiggle your leg to ease some of it. You sit at the kitchen table with your sandwich and a glass of milk. You remember you have a few more things to do before you officially launch the social media pages for Guzma’s class. Between responding to texts from the man himself, you throw together the last details to flesh out the pages. The only thing it needs now is some pictures.

_ <<send me a picture of you>> _

_ <<ok...why>> _

_ <<it’s for the facebook page, we need an icon>> _

_ <<and its gotta b my ugly mug?>> _

You frown. He really thinks that way about himself? Is he _blind?_

_ <<well unless you have better ideas, i thought the instructor himself would be a good draw>> _

_ <<wait... r u sayin u think im hot _ 😏 _ >> _

Despite the fact that he isn’t here, you can picture that stupid smug expression of his in your mind’s eye, and your face turns bright red. You pinch the bridge of your nose, close your eyes tightly, and blow out a heavy sigh. The squirmy feeling in your chest is getting worse.

“Percy,” you tell your meowth, between bites of sandwich, “This man is gonna be the death of me, I swear.”

“Owth?” questions Percy, licking his lips.

_ <<nnnnnnnnope never mind i’ll just throw an icon together on my computer>> _

You finish your sandwich, head upstairs to your bedroom, and plop down in the swivel chair at your desk. Your finger skirts across the touchpad and your laptop blinks to life. After briefly checking your social media, you open up your image editing software and start messing around with ideas for an icon. You think back to the symbol all of Team Skull wears, those S’s stylized to resemble skulls. You’re trying your best to recreate the symbol for the page’s icon when your phone buzzes again.

Another text from Guzma, but this one is an image. A thrill of adrenaline spikes through you as you unlock your phone and open the message.

He’s shirtless, standing in front of his bathroom mirror. The sweatpants he’s wearing are _gloriously_ low, revealing a trail of black hair from his navel down. One hand holding his phone, the other making devil horns, he exudes attitude. His mouth is open in a wide, brash grin, and his tongue extends past his lips. Your heart skips a beat when you spy the gleam of a piercing, a dot of silver amongst the red of his tongue. A pair of round, yellow-rimmed shades cover his eyes.

_Oh, shit. Ohhh fuckfuckfuck._

What the fuck are you supposed to say to this? Are you supposed to let him know that this might’ve been the single hottest image ever sent to you? Are you supposed to play it cool? You chew your lip, drinking in the image like you’re dying of thirst. You’re dying of thirst and this image is one _tasty ass_ sip of water.

_ <<guzma oh my god>> _

_ << _ 😎 _ >> _

_ <<well as good of a draw this would be i don’t think it’ll work as an icon>> _

_ <<bummer well u can still keep it _ 😉 _ >> _

You’re going to die. No, wait. First you’re going to materialize in his house and kick his ass, and _then_ you’re going to die.

_ <<i got the icon covered okay please stop trying to assassinate me>> _

_ <<hehehe>> _

Your entire body feels flushed. You set your phone down and return to creating the icon. But now you’re distracted. You keep glancing at your phone, fighting the urge to return to the picture and find new details you missed. No, no. He won’t get under your skin so easily. You can resist him for _at least_ 20 minutes. You finish the icon, snap a picture, and send it back to him.

_ <<here how’s this?>> _

_ <<whoa thats rly good>> _

_ <<thank you>> _

You finish up the final touches on the social media pages. You’re pretty proud of your handiwork. They look nearly professional in quality. Giddy with pride, you change your laundry over to the dryer, and hastily type out a message to Guzma with one hand.

_ <<alright i’m going to bed>> _

_ <<what for real? Its still early>> _

_ <<yeah well i’m tired>> _

_ <<dont i at least get a pic of u? Its only fair>> _

You stare at the screen. Is he serious? What kind of picture? A brilliant idea strikes your brain. You send him a picture of the top of your head. Only your eyes and eyebrows are visible.

_ <<how’s this?>> _

_ <<god ur a brat>> _

You grin to yourself. You send a picture of your own hand, flashing the peace sign.

_ <<aight well im done w/ u>> _

A little giggle escapes you. You scurry back up to your bedroom and find yourself in front of your mirror. You try your best to look alluring and pretty in your pajamas, but you’re not sure how well the effect came off. You never were great at gauging the quality of your selfies. You wrinkle your nose as you play with filters… and end up just going with a winking sticker placed strategically to hide your more egregious faults. 

_ <<damn>> _

Is that good? Bad? You’re not really sure.

_ <<i’m in my PJs, i can’t be held accountable>> _

_ <<nah that aint what im sayin>> _

This just leaves you with further questions. 

_ <<well nite see ya 2morrow>> _

_ <<good night>> _

You crawl into bed, turn off the lights, and get comfortable beneath your blankets. You close your eyes and attempt to sleep. A moment passes. Then another. With a frustrated groan, you snatch up your phone and open that picture one more time.

_Stupid sexy Guzma._

You only ogle it for another five minutes, before the siren song of sleep is too much to resist. One last fantasy comes to you, in that lingering space between waking and dreaming. Guzma, shirtless, making a come-hither motion with one long index finger. With a wolfish grin, he gestures to his lap. And as if being pulled by some invisible string, you find yourself inexorably drawn to him. You sit, straddling his hips, and those strong, square hands of his are everywhere at once. The fantasy bleeds into dream as you fall, and surrender to the embrace of sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning, your body seems reluctant to enter the waking world. Your mind clings desperately to the comfort of your dreams, but eventually, your eyes open fully. The world solidifies in bits and pieces, starting with the early morning light streaming through your curtains, and the heavy lump of meowth sitting on your chest. With a sigh, you sit up, dislodging an indignant Percy, and twitch aside the blankets. The clock reads 8:37 am. Way too early, but you have no time to dwell on that now. Now that you’re awake, your bladder feels near to bursting.

When you slip out of your bedroom, however, there’s something amiss. There are voices coming from your kitchen. One is your mother’s. But who is she talking to? Bladder temporarily forgotten, you tiptoe to the landing of the stairs, ears straining to catch snippets of conversation.

“--more pancakes, hon?”

“Yeah, keep ‘em comin’, please. These are fu-- er. Really good. Is there any more coffee?”

Your blood turns to ice in your veins. Oh, God. Guzma is... sitting in your kitchen. Having breakfast with your mother. _Censoring_ his constant swearing! Is this what having a panic attack feels like? How long has he been here? Oh, you absolutely want to disappear. With a muffled groan of frustration, you scurry off to relieve your demanding bladder and get dressed.

When you finally get downstairs to witness the whole thing for yourself, Guzma is wolfing down the remnants of a plate of pancakes. He pauses every other bite to take a sip of coffee. Your mother is sitting beside him at the breakfast table, a robe over her pajamas, looking at her phone screen and picking at the half a grapefruit she traditionally has for breakfast. It’s the most surreal scene you could’ve ever imagined.

There are so many things you want to say, you’re not even sure what to pick first.

“What the _fuck_ is happening here?”

That’s a good choice.

Both of them look up, wearing expressions of bewilderment. Your mother clucks her tongue disapprovingly and goes back to her phone.

“Breakfast,” she says. “What does it look like?”

Guzma gives you a grin, cheeks full of pancakes. “Yeah, I showed up a little early and ya moms offered some breakfast.” He swallows and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and lifts the mug of coffee to his lips. “I ain’t one to turn down a free meal.”

Your mother gives you a knowing smile and you absolutely want to disappear.

“Ha… haha, okay. O-Okay. Mom, isn’t it time for you to go to work?”

She glances at the clock on the wall, and clucks again, like a ruffled hen. “You’re right, I have to go get ready. Guzma, could you be a dear and clean that pan for me before you leave?” She gets to her feet, and pats him on the shoulder as she passes.

“Oh, yea, no problem, ma’am.”

Your mother disappears upstairs and you turn your attention to Guzma. Arms folded over your chest, you saddle him with the most withering glare you can summon. He gets to his feet, picks up his plate, stacks your mom’s on top of it, and grabs the pan in his spare hand. With a clear of his throat, he heads to the sink to clean the dishes, trying his damndest to avoid your gaze. There’s a distinctive pink coloring to his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

“Don’t gimme that look.”

“You could’ve _told me_ you were gonna show up early. I would’ve been awake if you had _told_ me!”

He shrugs, and starts rinsing the dirty dishes. “Didn’t really plan on it.” His demeanor shifts a bit, and he seems suddenly guarded. “Just uh… couldn’t sleep, didn’t have anythin’ to do.” He shrugs again. “Got bored.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Well, what did you and my mom talk about?”

“Not much, mostly how teachin’ at the rec center is, how her job is goin’...” He glances at you, then goes back to scrubbing the syrup off the plates. “She thanked me.”

“For what?”

“For… ‘giving you a purpose’. Those’re her words.” He rinses off the soap from the dishes and add them to the drying rack. “Said she’s mostly just happy you’re not moping around anymore. Said she was grateful for me helpin’ ya.” He dries his hands on a dishtowel, and turns to face you, leaning back against the counter. The look in his eyes is politely curious, but you know he’s wanting more of an explanation.

You clear your throat, looking away from his interested eyes. “We can practice in the basement. I have a bluetooth speaker down there we can use.”

The sudden subject change seems to not faze him. “Yeah, aight, I’ll get down there and set it up.”

As he disappears down the steps to the basement, your mother appears on the landing coming down from the second floor. She’s dressed and ready for work. She’s putting an earring in as she approaches the door. You pour some iced tea into her travel mug and hold it out to her.

“Well, you were right, hon.” She takes the mug and smirks at you.

“I was?”

“Yes, he’s _very_ hot.”

“ _Mother!_ Please don’t, oh my God...”

She chuckles, and presses a quick kiss to your forehead. “I’m going out after work with some friends so don’t wait up. You let Guzma know I appreciate his help. Such a nice boy.” She gives you another of her knowing smiles, before heading out of the back door. You wave from the steps as she pulls out of the driveway.

Everyone seems bound and determined to end your life this day.

With a heavy sigh, you head down into the basement only to find another shock. You’ve caught Guzma in the middle of yanking off his tank top and _oh, sweet merciful heaven._ The picture from last night was one thing, but to have him standing there in person, with all that skin on display. You almost miss the last step, but manage to catch yourself. Mid-stretch, he looks up as you half-stumble into the basement.

“I think we can start learnin’ some specific stuff. We’ll start runnin’ me and Plumes’ part. Sound good?”

 _Oh, God._ “Y-Yeah, sounds good.”

“Aight, dope.” He picks up the bluetooth speaker and fishes out his phone. Moments later, the little speaker is thumping with the routine’s song. The deep bass thrums to life, and the familiar melody seems to pound in time with your heart.

Guzma straightens almost lazily, that smug little smirk on his lips, and with one long finger, gestures in a come-hither motion. And just like in your dream-fantasy, you are drawn to him as if on an invisible tether. Although this time, there is no straddling of his lap, but that doesn’t mean you don’t imagine it. He takes your hand, still smirking, and pulls you closer until your chest touches his. You wonder briefly if you’ll _ever_ get used to this.

The two of you begin going through the solo routine. With all the previous practicing, you take to it surprisingly easy. Plumeria wasn’t kidding when she said Guzma could lead anybody. Under his expert teachings, you feel less and less intimidated by this whole routine. That being said, you’re still a long ways off from Plumeria’s perfect execution. More than once you stumble over your feet, and Guzma has to constantly remind you to keep your gaze locked with his. After a few hours of exertion, your clothes and hair are starting to stick to your skin. Now the removal of his shirt definitely makes sense. You feel like a moist gym sock.

A heavy sigh escapes you as you flop face-first onto the couch. Guzma lifts your ankles with one hand and sits beneath them. You bury your face in a pillow and heave another exhausted sigh.

“You’re doin’ good, I gotta say. Catchin’ on quicker than I thought you would.”

Despite the little swell of pride in your chest at this compliment, you groan. He laughs.

“Yeah it’s tough at first, but you’re gettin’ it.” He playfully slaps your calf. “Let’s get some lunch, I’m starved.”

“I don’t know if I can move.” 

“...Aight.” And without further preamble, he scoops you up and tosses you over his shoulder like a heavy sack of lillipup chow. An undignified squawk of surprise and protest escapes you, and you flail as this new positioning sends your entire sense of balance out of whack. He’s still shirtless, so you have next to nothing to grab for support. You settle for bracing your palms at the small of his back and thanking whatever gods are listening that he can’t see your face. A tiny voice in your mind quietly takes note of how easily he lifts and carries you. You beat back the horny little voice with a broom. _There are more pressing matters at hand here!_

“Guzma! Guzma, _put me down!_ What the fuck!!”

“You said you couldn’t move! I’m just tryin’ to help!” he says, climbing the stairs two at a time. When he arrives at the landing, he adjusts, and suddenly he’s cradling you against his chest. He puts on his very best pompous, posh voice. “Top floor, kitchen gadgets and groceries.” He flashes you his most charming grin, and you _hate_ that you like it _._

“Put me down.” Your entire face feels hotter than a furnace and you know it must be cherry red at this point. It’s very nice to have him holding you like this, but you’re not about to let him know that.

“You’re gonna have to get used to me liftin’ you, yanno.” 

“Not outta nowhere like that!” You give him what you hope is an indignant glare, but it probably just came off as a terrified pout.

Gently, he sets you on your feet, still grinning that smug, shit-eating grin. Immediately, you jump away, face still scarlet, and begin readjusting your clothing. He saunters past you, picks up a dish towel, and wets it at the sink. You pretend not to watch him wipe sweat from his face, arms, and chest.

“S-So what do you want to eat? I’ve got some money, we can get fast food or we can get pizza del--”

“Pizza!” He cuts across you, practically shouting the word.

You blink in surprise. “...Okay. Any preference for toppings?”

“Nah, I ain’t really picky.” He tosses the damp towel over one shoulder and scratches at his undercut. “You get it ordered, uhh… ya mind if I use the shower?”

Your brain temporarily short circuits. Guzma, _naked_ in your shower? Using your shampoo and wash cloth? A too-tiny towel wrapped around his waist? Oh, lord, you feel light-headed. To distract yourself, you turn to your phone and try to remember how to breathe. “Y-Yeah, no problem. Use mine ‘cause my mom’s pretty particular about where she keeps her stuff.”

“Aight, so where’s yours?”

“Um, upstairs, second door on the left.”

Grinning, he rushes up the stairs and disappears, leaving you alone with your thoughts. Trying _not_ to think too hard about what’s transpiring upstairs in your shower, you call the pizza place. When the pizza’s ordered, you head upstairs to your bedroom. Percy is curled on your bedspread, as usual, glaring at you as you enter. He seems decidedly ruffled.

“I see you’ve met Guzma,” you say, as you hurriedly change out of your sweaty clothes. “He’s… something isn’t he?”

Percy growls, his tail flicking in irritation. He never was one for loud and boisterous people. You head for the door when a sound catches your attention. You stop dead in your tracks, hand on the doorknob. There’s a singing coming from your bathroom. Curiosity burns within you, and you creep closer. The door is slightly ajar. Over the sound of rushing water, Guzma is singing. Well, he’s _sort of_ singing. It’s mostly talking loudly, with only some semblance of a tune to the words.

“Tell me what ya want, what ya really, really want, I’ll tell ya what I want, what I really really want!”

You clap a hand over your mouth to stop the bubble of hysterical laughter from escaping. Is he singing… Spice Girls?

“If you wanna be my lover! You gotta get with my FRIENDS! Make it last forever, friendship never ends!”

Of all the strange things you could’ve imagined happening to you on this day, this is certainly the strangest. Questioning the fates, you slip away from the door and head back downstairs to wait for the pizza.

Moments later, still not wearing a shirt, Guzma joins you, toweling off his hair. Percy is hot on his heels, still looking distinctly ruffled.

“Nice shower. In fact, this whole fuckin’ house is dope as shit,” Guzma says, letting the towel drape over his head.

“Thanks?” You never know what to say to people to compliment the house. It’s your mother’s, not yours. It’s not like you have much say in its decorations beyond your own room. “Pizza should be here soon.”

“Awesome. We could watch somethin’ downstairs while we wait?”

“Cool.” It’s a lame ass response, but you’re struggling to scrub the image of Guzma singing Spice Girls in your shower. It’s an amazing visual, you have to say, and it does wonders for sort of knocking him down a peg, like imagining the audience naked. He’s decidedly less intimidating now. 

“So,” you say, moments later when the pair of you are sitting on the couch in the basement. “How _did_ you get so good at dancing?”

Guzma pauses in uncapping his bottle of water. “Uh, well. Been dancin’ most of my life, ever since I was a kid.” He takes a sip from the bottle. “Used to be on a team, before Team Skull. We were real good, had a shot to get sponsored, to make it professionally, yanno? And uh…” The little smile on his lips dissolves. A muscle in his jaw jumps. “Let’s just say shit fell through.”

Although his body language screams for you to leave it alone, curiosity burns inside your mind. The hurt, angry expression to his face breaks your heart. Hesitantly, you place a comforting hand on his bicep.

This seems to pull him from the dark path his thoughts have taken. He blinks and looks at you as if in a daze, and then takes a deep breath and forces a smile.

Suddenly the doorbell rings.

“Pizza’s here. I’ll get it.” He snatches up his previously discarded tank top, and yanks it over his head as he mounts the stairs. Moments later, he returns with two boxes of pizza and a few paper plates.

“So how did you get a job at the rec center?” You pull a few slices of pizza onto your plate and lick your fingers clean.

“Oh, Plumeria, actually. Yeah, she and I go way back. She, uh…” He takes a bite of pizza. “She got me an interview with Hala, he’s one of the co-directors.” He takes several more bites, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and continues with a mouthful of food. “Back when I started, it was just a bullshit assistant kind of position. Then Hala saw me dancin’ after hours.” He shrugs and swallows his several bites of pizza. “Offered me a teachin’ job right there.”

“Wow, that’s pretty lucky. Must’ve seen some talent in you.” You cast him a side-eye glance, picking olives off your pizza.

He shoots you a withering look. “Ay, shut up with that wholesome shit, gonna put me off my meal.” But he cracks one of those crooked grins regardless.

You flip on the television and the pair of you eat in comfortable silence as you search for something to watch. You settle on some dumb home video show with a focus on people injuring themselves. It gets a few good laughs out of you both, and between the two of you, the pizza is half-gone in record time. Percy watches the pair of you suspiciously, perched on the basement stairs, his eyes glinting in the semi-darkness.

With your belly full of pizza and your limbs still dead from practice, a sudden wave of exhaustion washes over you. You find yourself leaning against Guzma’s shoulder, slipping in and out of a light doze. At some point, you feel yourself being moved, and you’re suddenly much more comfortable. Something brushes against your cheek and you smile sleepily.

“Mmm, I’m tired…” is all you can manage, before sleep claims you. Your dreams are peaceful and mostly normal. You’re grateful for the apparent ebb in horny brain content.

When you awake, the basement is dark, save for a single lamp. You sit up and rub the sleep from your eyes. What time is it? Still foggy from an impromptu nap, you look around for your phone. Blinking against the sudden bright light, you squint at your phone. The time reads 4:27 pm. Wow, that’s probably the longest unplanned nap you’ve ever taken. Is Guzma still here?

As if on cue, you hear a voice upstairs. Sounds like someone on their phone.

Yawning, you hurry upstairs to see Guzma sitting at your kitchen table, his cell phone pressed between his ear and shoulder. He looks up as he sees you and shoots you a little grin. Percy sits on the table just out of Guzma’s reach, tail flicking in irritation as he watches Guzma with narrowed eyes. 

“Yeah, alright, Frankie. Yeah, they’re awake now, so we’ll -- chill out, Frankie, it’s fine.” He gestures to an empty chair beside him at the table. When you sit, he pulls the phone away from his ear and presses it to his chest. “Sounds like there’s somethin’ goin’ down at the rec center.” He rolls his eyes. “Some chumps tryin’ to start some bullshit with the gang.” He lifts the phone back to his ear.

What kind of bullshit? Sudden fear grips your heart. What if Team Skull really _are_ bad kids? You think to the mace you carry in your bag, or the switchblade you keep hidden upstairs in your sock drawer, just in case. You’ve never been in a fight before.

“Aight, see ya.” Guzma hangs up and sighs. He seems to pick up on your unease. “What’s up with you? Ya look like you seen a ghost.”

“...Do I need to bring some kind of weapon?”

For a moment, he just stares at you in open bewilderment. Then it seems to click, and a bark of laughter escapes him.

“No, no, oh my God.” Another little laugh escapes him and he scratches at his undercut. “No, this is just dumbass dance beef. They’ll insult our moms, call us thugs, probably say somethin’ vaguely racist at Frankie, and be on their way.”

“Oh.”

“It’s good to know that you’re ready to throw down, though,” he says, grinning at you. “I like that.”

“You’d be disappointed, I tend to cry if people _look_ at me too harshly.”

“C’mon,” he says with a low chuckle. “We better get our asses over there before Frankie loses her shit.”

“Alright, lemme just… try not to look like a sack of crap real quick.” You get to your feet and make your way towards the stairs to your bedroom.

“I think you look great, but yeah sure.”

You pretend not to hear that. In your bedroom, you exchange your comfy clothes for something a bit more presentable. You stand before the full-length mirror on your closet door, eyeing your reflection critically. All in all, you’re not _terrible_ to look at. There are things you would improve on, of course, but you’ve always been okay with your appearance. You take a few seconds to comb your fingers through your hair to tame the sleep-styled mess, and apply the barest of makeup to cover your less than perfect skin. You smile at your reflection, already feeling better.

You grab a jacket and head back downstairs. Guzma is waiting by the door, slouched against the frame. He’s donned his hoodie and the beanie he’d worn when he arrived. He looks up from his phone as you approach.

“Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be, I guess.”

“Eh, don’t worry too much,” he says, waving his hand airily. “The worst that could happen is they throw a punch but I won’t let them hurt ya.”

The idea of Guzma being protective thrills you more than it should. You give him a little smile, grab your bag and house keys, and follow him out the door.

The ride back into the city and to the rec center is quiet. The autumn sun is setting quickly, basking the world in inky blues and blacks as you drive. Guzma turns on the radio, filling the car with quiet music. You’re beginning to find that you’re more comfortable around him now. Sometimes he still gives you these looks that sends shivers down your spine, and sometimes electricity seems to chase his touch, but you can at the very least meet his gaze without blushing now.

The car pulls into the parking lot of the rec center, where Team Skull awaits you. Frankie and Plumeria and Scarlet the salazzle, as well as the others, are seated on the hood of a car -- a beat up jeep with pink/blue flames spray painted over the sides. When the pair of you exit the car, Frankie, Reese, and Cleo all hurry up to Guzma and begin talking at once.

“Guz, this is fuckin’ bad --”

“Boss, you’re gonna lose it --”

“We’re, like, totally screwed, G!!”

“All of you, shut the hell up,” he snaps, pushing his way past them to Plumeria. She alone had stayed perfectly still, seated upon the hood of her car. “Plumes, what the fuck’s goin’ on?”

She regards him with a calm, steady expression. “It’s him, Guz.”

Guzma’s brow furrows in confusion, but before he can respond, the doors to the rec center burst open. Several people exit the building at once, led by one young man with white-blonde hair. It’s slicked back away from his face, save for a lock of it that obscures his right eye. The one eye you can see is bright, intense green. There are no emotions at all on his face, simply a facade of impassiveness as he approaches with his lackeys in tow.

The team is all dressed in matching black outfits. There’s a uniformity to them that Team Skull lacks, a uniformity that comes from having corporate sponsorship. They all wear black flat brim caps, emblazoned with the team’s symbol -- a single green meowth’s eye, impaled with a sharpened femur. Everyone but the blonde boy wears bandanas across their face, each unique but similar. One, an open gyrados’s maw, another, the snarling mouth of an incineroar. You catch a glimpse of what looks to be a clown’s lips and nose, lined with jagged, razor-sharp teeth. There’s only one pokemon seen amongst them: a sneasel. It scuttles between the group, eyes bright with mischief.

“Guzma. Fancy meeting you here,” the blonde boy says in an even tone, and you see the barest hint of a smirk curve his lip. “You and your little gang of thugs should probably run along now, before someone calls the cops.”

Guzma only stares at this new arrival, brow knit, nose wrinkled, and his mouth drawn tight into a deep-set scowl. You watch his hands curl into white-knuckled fists at his side.

“Gladion.”


	6. Chapter 6

“It’s so good that you remember me, Guzma; I was worried all that weed and alcohol had destroyed what few brain cells you have left.” A cruel sort of laugh bubbles up from this boy, this Gladion, and his lackeys echo it like mindless automatons. The sneasel pokes its head out from behind Gladion’s leg, and an unmistakable laughing chitter escapes it.

“Listen, Glad, why don’t you go back to what you’re really good at? Suckin’ and losin’.” Guzma grins as the rest of Team Skull groans appreciatively at his burn. 

Gladion ignores this slight and starts circling Guzma, each step slow and deliberate. His eyes move almost lazily from Guzma to Team Skull to Plumeria, before finally coming to a halt on you.

“Who’s this? My replacement?”

Guzma snorts. “Like we didn’t replace you the second you fucked off.”

Gladion’s eyes narrow, flick back to Plumeria, and he finally takes notice of the cast. Again, his lip curls into the tiniest smirk. “Oh, we finally haul off and hit our little wifey? Is that why her leg’s in a cast? She mouth off just one too many times?”

Guzma visibly bristles, his hands curling into white-knuckled fists at his side, but Plumeria lets out a harsh bark of laughter.

“Gladion, shut the fuck up before you get your teeth knocked in,” she says, sliding off the hood of the car and picking up her crutches. “We both know I could kick the shit out of you even _with_ this cast on.” Scarlet, her salazzle, scuttles around her master, hissing in defiance at the sneasel. It shrinks back with a low growl.

For just a split second, Gladion’s cool facade breaks, and you see true fear in his eyes. He backs away from her a half-step, before composing himself. He straightens, and clasps his hands behind his back. Now his attention is on you and you’re less than thrilled.

“So. Has he fucked you yet?” He asks in such a calm, nonchalant voice, as if he’s asking about the weather. 

“Gladion, shut your _fucking_ mouth before I shut it for you,” snarls Guzma, advancing towards him. He places himself between you and Gladion, and there’s a dangerous gleam to his eyes. 

Afraid of what he might do, you place a steadying hand on Guzma’s forearm. He relaxes just a little, and glances at you over his shoulder. 

Gladion’s gaze doesn’t waver from your face. He seems to be reading your every insecurity, your every self-conscious thought, like it’s written in your eyes. He tilts his head to one side.

“He must be fucking you. There’s no way he’d let someone as clearly pathetic as you on the team otherwise. So tell me, how is he? I’ve always kind of w--”

With his eyes on you, Gladion doesn’t see Guzma lash out until it’s too late. His fist moves so fast you barely even see it, and suddenly Gladion’s nose is spurting blood. In the same heartbeat of time, before anyone else can react, Guzma lunges for Gladion, grabs him around the middle, and the pair of them tumble to the ground. Sitting on his stomach, Guzma gets in several good punches, and Gladion gets in one or two retaliatory hits, before you and Team Skull manages to yank them apart. Guzma resists, and sends a swift kick to Gladion’s ribs before he’s finally wrenched away. Gladion stays on the ground, groaning through clenched teeth. His sneasel immediately comes to his defense, hovering over him and growling at Team Skull.

You take a protective position between the two of them, your back to Guzma, even as he struggles against the hold of his team members. Your mind is a mad whirl of activity, but one objective is clear: protect Guzma. From Gladion, from himself, from his own terrible decisions. _Protect him._

Gladion rolls onto all fours and spits blood on the ground. A hoarse, humorless laugh escapes him, and the high-pitched quality of it turns your veins to ice. Unsteadily, and with the aid of his lackeys, he gets to his feet. He shoves them all away as he straightens, and starts adjusting his disheveled clothing. With blood smeared across his mouth and his cheek rapidly purpling with bruises, Gladion’s cool and collected illusion has shattered. Now he looks completely unhinged, with a manic grin spread across his face and a wild gleam in those intense green eyes.

“Biiiiig mistake, _G Man,"_ snarls Gladion, practically spitting the nickname. He wipes the trickle of blood from his nose with the back of his hand. “Big _fuckin’_ mistake.” 

“Get the fuck out of here, Gladion,” Plumeria hisses. “Just shut up and go home before we let him loose and you _really_ get hurt."

As if to illustrate her point, Guzma strains against those holding him, teeth gritted with exertion. You press your back further against his chest, willing Gladion to follow Plumeria’s very good advice.

Gladion’s eyes flick from Guzma to Plumeria and then to you. You can almost hear the gears whirring in his head. “This isn’t fucking over, Team Shithead, not by a long shot.” He wipes more blood from his mouth and nose. “Null Squad, move out.” 

In unison, the rival team turns on their heels and makes their way from the rec center parking lot, the sneasel bringing up the rear. When they disappear from view, you turn around to face Guzma. 

He looks rough, but compared to Gladion, it’s nothing. A split lip, a bleeding nose, and a bruised cheek are all he has to suffer through. Slowly, Team Skull lets him go, and he yanks his arms free of their grasp. Still seething, he’s dangerous to approach now, but you’ve never been very bright. With gentle fingers, you touch his face, flinching when he flinches, and moving his chin from side to side to look him over.

“Are you alright?” you ask of him, in a low voice.

“...M’fine,” he says, his gaze softening as he meets yours. The rage seems to drain from him under your worried touch, and he sags a little, as if exhausted.

“You’re fine?” asks Plumeria, and when he nods begrudgingly, she slaps him _hard_ in the back of the head. “Lōlō! You tryin’ get us fuckin’ _killed?_ ”

“By who, Gladion?” Guzma snorts, rubbing the sore place on the back of his head. “I ain’t scared of him!”

“No, _moron,_ by his fuckin’ _family_. Do you have any idea who his mother is??”

Guzma stares at her blankly. “...No.”

Plumeria’s expression is nothing short of incredulous. “How can you _not_ \--” She stops herself with a frustrated growl, and instead pinches the bridge of her nose. “Just forget it, Guzma...” Shaking her head, she sighs, and her gaze falls to you. From her pocket she reveals a familiar set of keys. Guzma’s. “Can you take him home?”

Guzma turns, sees his keys held aloft, and makes a grab for them. “Plumes, what the fuck, you picked my pocket again! I can take _myself_ home!”

Plumeria snatches the keys just out of his reach, scowling. “Please, like I can trust you to not pull another stupid-ass stunt, like follow him home or somethin’.”

He makes another wild lunge for the keys, and Plumeria steps back with remarkable agility for a woman in an ankle cast. In a snap judgement call, she tosses the keys to you. They sail over Guzma’s head and land squarely in your hands. He rounds on you, brow furrowed in an intense glare.

“Give ‘em.”

“No.” You startle everyone, including yourself, with the resolve in your voice. “Plumeria’s right, I gotta make sure you get home safe and stay there.”

Guzma’s expression twists into a nasty glower, but he says nothing. Instead he buries his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, hunches his shoulders, and heads back to his car. A string of Alolan curses escapes him in a constant torrent as he leaves.

“I’m sorry to put this on you,” Plumeria says. She affords you an apologetic look. “But he just don’t listen to me. I know he’ll listen to you. He likes you.”

You blink at her in bewilderment. “Really?”

“Yeah, we all do. You’re pretty badass, stickin’ yourself between them like that.” She folds her arms over her chest and gives you an impressed albeit tired smile. “Just take him home, calm him down, and once he’s asleep, you can leave. He’ll be normal in the morning.”

“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow, Plumes.” Quickly, before you can think too hard about it, you pull her into a tight embrace.

A surprised laugh escapes her, and she squeezes you. When you separate, she playfully punches your upper arm. It hurts, but in a good way. 

Team Skull pile into their cars as you return to Guzma’s. He’s calmed down a bit in the time you spoke to Plumeria, and now he just looks tired. Sitting in the passenger seat with his head propped up on one hand, he watches you slide behind the wheel and start the car. 

“Sorry you got involved in this shit,” he says in a quiet voice as the car rumbles to life. “Sorry you… had to see me like that. I ain’t proud of it, I just get so fuckin’ angry and I…” His voice trails off and he shakes his head. 

“It’s okay, Guz… really.” You chance a little glimpse at him, before returning your gaze to the road. “I can understand getting mad. He was baiting you.”

“Yeah and I fell for it, hook, line, and sinker. Like a fuckin’ dumbass magikarp. Ugh, what is _wrong_ with you, Guzma?”

“Stop it!” Again, you tear your gaze from the road to look at him, brows furrowed. “Don’t talk about yourself that way.”

“You just don’t get it. I’m nothin’. Less than nothin’.” His expression twists into a grimace of self-loathing as he stares out the windshield. “Been told I’m nothin’ my whole fuckin’ life, gotta be true, right?”

“No, it’s not true!” You want to shout, to grab hold of him and shake him, to tell him that he’s _everything_ , but you show a modicum of restraint. “Anyone who’s told you you’re nothing is fucking _wrong_ , Guzma. Plain and simple.” Out of the corner of your eye, you catch him staring at you, as if he’s seeing you for the first time, but you keep your gaze focused on the road.

Save for a few muttered directions, he’s silent the rest of the drive. He stares out the dark window, and when you take short glimpses at him, you can see the muscle in his jaw jumping. Best to just leave it alone now.

Eventually, you pull into the narrow frontage road for a trailer park, not at all far from your house. It’s across the railroad tracks and the houses preceding it got progressively shabbier the further you traveled, but you don’t feel at all unsafe. Despite the late hour, there are children playing in the grassy patches that pass for yards, and they scurry out of the path of the car as you approach. Guzma directs you to the end of the cul-de-sac and down a gravel driveway. A shabby, tiny trailer lies at the end of the cul-de-sac, bathed in an orange-yellow light from a street lamp. A single folding chair next to a weathered spool table sits in the scrubby patch of grass beside the trailer. 

“This is fine,” mutters Guzma as you pull into the driveway. “Just gimme my keys and you can go.”

“Plumeria said to make sure you stay here,” you reply, and turn off the car. “I can hang out for a little.”

“You don’t gotta do that.”

“I know, but I’m going to anyway.”

With a snort of frustration, Guzma gets out of the car, and slams the door shut behind him. You mirror him, albeit less angrily, and follow him up the steps to the trailer door. When you relinquish his keys, he unlocks the door without meeting your gaze and steps inside. You half expect him to slam the door in your face, but he simply stands aside, holds the door open, and lets you enter.

You step over the threshold and take in your surroundings. It’s meagerly furnished but by no means filthy. There’s a squashy brown couch, threadbare in patches but comfortable, and a matching recliner, both situated around a small but serviceable television. The most expensive thing in the house is likely the new video game console tucked beneath the TV in the cabinet. You spy an acoustic guitar in the corner of the room, and wonder briefly how long it’s been since he last played. The walls are decorated sparsely; mostly framed posters from classic horror movies and a few band posters. Like most trailers, the space is open, and you can see a tiny but well-kept kitchen with a yellowed fridge, stove, and a coffee machine. Down the hallway are two doors and you guess they’re to the bathroom and bedroom.

Guzma still won’t meet your gaze. He shuts the door behinds you, locks it, and toes off his sneakers. He turns back to the room and lets out a sharp whistle.

“Aight, quit hidin’. Get out here so I can feed ya.”

For a moment, nothing happens, and you wonder if maybe Gladion had somehow given him a concussion. And then you hear a soft scuttling, and several wimpods peek out their little faces from various hiding spaces. One appears from between the cushions on the couch, another from beneath the couch itself. A few poke their heads out from kitchen cabinets and drawers, and one even crawls out of the fridge. The door to the bedroom opens and three scuttle out, followed by one cutiefly carrying a joltik on its back.

They all eye you suspiciously, but surround Guzma as he pulls from his pocket a bag of pokebeans. He squats down to their level and begins tossing beans to the swarm of wimpods. Chittering with excitement, they steadily crawl up his legs and onto his back, arms, and head. With the patience of a parent, he gently pulls them off, sets them on the floor, and hands them a bean. The cutiefly lands on his shoulder, chirruping happily as it nuzzles against his jaw. He smirks, hands it and the joltik a bean, and the pair of them flutter away to the top of the fridge with their prize.

Soon, the bag is empty, and the wimpods all scuttle off to separate areas of the trailer, clutching their beans in their mandibles. With a sigh, Guzma shrugs out of his hoodie and tosses it onto the couch. He makes his way to the kitchen, shoving the empty bean bag into a trash bin by the fridge as he passes. He snatches up a dishcloth, wets it, and wipes away the trickle of dried blood on his nose and mouth. When he’s finished, he glances your way, expression uncertain.

“You want a beer or somethin’?”

“Sure.”

“Go ahead and take a seat, I guess. Sorry, it ain’t as nice as ya mom’s place, but…” He trails off and shrugs, once again avoiding your gaze.

“I like it. It’s very _you_.” You sit on the couch, which is just as comfortable as it looks, and look around at all the different posters framed on the wall. He’s a fan of horror, it seems, and the band posters are from a wide variety of genres. 

Guzma sits beside you, hands you an open bottle of beer, and takes a sip of his own. “Yeah well, I don’t know if that’s a _good_ thing, necessarily.” His face twists into a disgusted grimace. “If this _is_ me, then I really am tr--”

You jerk forward and slap a hand over his mouth. “Shut the fuck up, Guzma. You aren’t trash. I don’t wanna hear you say that anymore.” 

His brows furrow, and suddenly you feel something wet and warm brush against your palm. To your _horror,_ you realize he’s licking your hand. With a cry of disgust, you yank your hand away and scrub your palm against your jeans. He cackles.

“What are you, fucking _five?!”_ you ask, exasperated.

“Maybe.” He shoots you a mischievous grin over the mouth of his beer and takes another sip. “So, uh… not really used to entertainin’ anyone at my place. What d’ya wanna do?”

“We could watch TV and talk, play some games, or…” You gesture at the guitar in the corner. “You could play that for me?”

“TV it _is,_ then!” he says, much too loud, and he grabs the remote off the coffee table. “God, I forgot I even had that fuckin’ thing,” he mutters under his breath.

“How long has it been since you’ve played?” you ask, as he mindlessly flips through channels.

“Eh, years.” He waves a dismissive hand, finishing off his beer in one gulp. “I should probably pawn the fuckin’ thing already, God knows I could use the money.”

“I don’t know, I think should pick it up again, give it another try.” You snicker as he pulls a glowering face at you. “What kind of music do you like?” You set down your own beer and cock your head at him.

“Anything, really. I listen to all kinds of shit. Anythin’ I can dance to,” he says with a grin. “Or sing terribly to. What’s that face for?” He arches a quizzical brow at your failed attempt to hide a smile.

“Oh, nothing… I just want to know if… you’ll tell me what you want? What you really really want?” you ask, batting your eyelashes innocently.

The grin on his face slowly collapses. “Y-Ya heard that, huh?” It’s as if all color has suddenly drained from his face. It’s _very_ satisfying to see.

“I did. It’s too bad I didn’t think to get a recording, really. I bet Plumeria would’ve _loved_ to -- mmph!” 

Suddenly, a throw pillow slaps you in the face. Guzma cackles as he begins a merciless onslaught pillow attack to silence your words. You sputter and throw up your arms to fend off the attack, but he persists, pressing you back against the couch cushions. Laughter escapes you both in endless peals, until you can hardly draw breath. When the seemingly unending barrage of pillow slaps ceases, Guzma is practically on top of you, grinning and laughing and panting. His weight is pressing against your legs, his hands braced against the couch on either side of your hips, and this realization seems to hit you both at the same time.

Breathing hard, your grins slowly melt away, replaced instead with trepidation. He breathes out a little chuckle, but makes no attempt to move. He simply meets your gaze for what feels like an eternity, and his traitorous eyes flick down to your lips.

Your heart skips a beat. 

“Um. I should probably go, I have a bit of a walk back my mom’s…” you say in a quiet voice. You war with yourself, both wanting him off and wanting him to press you further into the couch cushions. Gently, you squirm out from underneath him and get to your feet.

“W-Wait, uh...” As you move, he jerks back with the gawky grace of a newborn giraffarig, and straightens. His cheeks are flaming red as he scratches at his undercut. “I feel shitty kickin’ ya out at night like this, uh… I got an air mattress I could set up.” He looks earnest and slightly hopeful.

You blink at him, contemplating. Stay over? At his place? As if to answer, the sky begins rumbling ominously. Both you and Guzma peek out the nearby window and look up. Dark clouds, heavy with their cold, wet bounty, have begun gathering. More rumbling, louder this time, makes you jump a little. Moments later, a light drizzle beings to fall, dusting the world in a faint sheen of wet, and it steadily increases in intensity.

“Guess that answers that question…” you say, smiling ruefully. Your pulse spikes at the idea of sleeping over, even as innocently as this is. Will you see him in those too-low sweatpants he’d been wearing in his selfie? Your face feels much too warm. 

“I’ll go get the mattress, you should call ya moms.” Grinning, he turns away from the window, and disappears into a door down the hallway.

You pull your phone out of your bag and call your mom. She picks it up on the fifth ring, laughing as she answers. 

“Hello?”

“Hey, Mom? Um… I won’t be home tonight. Yeah, it started pouring while I was taking Guzma home and I’m just gonna crash at his place.”

“What? Honey, don’t you think you’re taking things a little fast?”

“Oh my _God_ , Mom, I’m sleeping on an air mattress! This is entirely innocent!” Your cheeks flush a deep red. “You told me to make more of an effort to tell you what’s going on, and that’s what I’m doing.”

“Well, just make sure you use protection, hon.”

Guzma reappears, a grey rolled-up something under one arm, and several blankets and pillows under the other. He tosses his bundles on the couch and begins moving furniture out of the way to make room for the mattress. You drop your voice to a harsh whisper.

“ _Mother,_ stop it! I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

Face hot, you hang up. Stuffing your phone back in your pocket, you turn to see Guzma rolling out the flat air mattress. The wimpods have reappeared, scuttling about it in curiosity. He has to stop every few seconds in the setup to remove a wimpod from his face or hair.

“Can ya’ll just give me a minute?” he says, his voice exasperated, but he’s smiling regardless. He never shows any hint of impatience with them, even when the simple act of setting up an auto-inflating air mattress is drawn out for an extra five minutes.

While he’s working, the cutiefly flutters to your shoulder, the joltik still riding its back. They both eye you curiously, chittering. You smile at them, and offer a finger to scratch at their chins. The cutiefly accepts, rubbing against your fingertip with vigor. 

“So you have a lot of wimpods, but what’s the story with these two?”

“Well, uh…” He blushes and straightens as the mattress begins inflating. He scratches at his undercut. “Sprinkles there, the cutiefly, she was uh… injured by a wild yungoos outside of Ryme City. Chased it off, took her home.”

“And the joltik?” you ask, reaching towards it to give it a scratch too.

“Careful…”

The joltik squeaks in fear and backs away from your finger. A tiny spark of electricity erupts from its abdomen, making contact with your skin.

“Ow!” Immediately, you pop the offended digit into your mouth. “That hurt!”

The joltik scurries behind the cutiefly and peeks at you.

“Yeah, Surge is kinda shy,” says Guzma, grinning a little. He moves closer, hand extended, and for one heart-stopping moment, you think he’s going to pull you into an embrace. Instead, he offers his flat palm to the joltik, who gratefully scuttles onto it. He places the joltik on his own shoulder and pokes it gently. “Hey, lil guy, they’re a friend. Don’t gotta go and spark up like that, aight?” 

The joltik squeaks and looks as chagrined as a pokemon can. Guzma smiles and scratches the top of its head with his fingertip.

“This lil dude’s previous shithead owner treated him like a fuckin’ battery.” His expression turns sour at the memory, and the joltik shivers a little. “His phone would die, his car needed a jump, he wanted to watch fuckin’ TV on the beach. He’d squeeze him within an inch of his life. Saw him do it in the park, and without really thinkin’, I decked the guy and stole his pokemon.” 

“You really like bug types, don’t you?” 

“Yeah, well.” He reaches out, scoops up Sprinkles, and takes both of them onto his shoulder. “I see myself in ‘em a lot, I guess. Everyone thinks they’re weak ‘n ugly ‘n stupid, but you treat ‘em right, and they’re amazin’.” He places both of the pokemon on top of the fridge.

“I don’t think they’re weak or ugly or stupid. I don’t think you are, either.” The words come from you before you can stop them, but you find it impossible to be embarrassed. It’s the truth.

Blinking in surprise, he turns away from Sprinkles and Surge, and stares at you. For once, he seems at a loss for words. You meet his gaze evenly, trying your best to convey the sincerity to your words, and smile. 

He smiles that charming, crooked, lopsided grin of his, and buries his hands in his pockets.

Suddenly, the air mattress beeps, and the pump shuts off. Both of you look towards it in dazed surprise. Guzma is the first to react. He moves towards it, snatching up the bedclothes and pillows as he goes. The pair of you work together and in a few moments, the bed is made.

“There ya go, fit for royalty,” Guzma says, grinning. 

“Looks comfy. I’m, uh… pretty beat, so. I think I’m gonna get to sleep. That way I can wake up early and be out your hair.” You offer him a rueful smile, toeing off your shoes.

“Well, I’ll… let you get to it, then.” He backs away, towards the door you presume is his bedroom.

“Good night!” 

“Yeah, night.” With one final, awkward smile, he disappears behind the door. It closes with a soft click, and you breathe a sigh of relief. 

Nervous energy sparks through your entire body. You sit on the edge of the mattress, mind whirling with excitement and fear. The storm outside the trailer has only picked up in intensity. The sound of rain hammering the metal roof of the trailer does little to lessen your anxiety. You never were great with thunderstorms. A rumble above seems to illustrate the point nicely. You nearly jump out of your skin.

You wait for a few minutes, and when it becomes clear that Guzma won’t be reappearing, you quickly shuck off your jeans, fold them, and place them on the couch. Sleeping in jeans is never comfortable. You scramble beneath the blankets, and try your hardest to shut your ears to the sounds outside, but you just can’t. The minutes bleed into hours, and you’re still curled into a tiny ball, jumping with fear every time the sky outside growls its ferocity.

You _hate_ this phobia. You’ve had it ever since you were a child, and even well into your adulthood, you still can’t seem to shake it. For nearly two hours, you wrestle with the fear, before one particularly loud clap of thunder has you leaping from the bed.

Blankets drawn tight around your entire body, heart pounding like a kettle drum, you scurry towards the door Guzma disappeared into. As quietly as you can, you slip inside. The room is dark save for a single lava lamp that illuminates one corner in a warm orange glow. The queen-sized bed takes up most of the space, and in it lies Guzma. He’s laying on his side, pillow sandwiched between his head and his arm. You can tell from his breathing that he’s utterly unbothered by the storm, and sleeping soundly.

You hesitate. Now that you’re actually here, all the adrenaline seems to be fading, and with it, your bravery. Then another peal of thunder rattles the windows, and with a squeak of fear, you dive for the bed. 

“H-Hey, what the fuck --” Voice rough with sleep, Guzma sits up in alarm as you crawl up towards him, and rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand.

“I-I’m so sorry, I couldn’t sleep, the storm --” You begin rattling off excuses in a hushed whisper, your face red. In the darkness, you meet his bleary gaze, beseeching him with your eyes to be understanding. It takes him just a moment for his sleepy brain to click.

“Oh. Oh, yeah, yeah, it’s okay. C’mere,” he says, in that same groggy tone of voice. He yawns and flops back down onto the mattress, one arm held out in a silent invitation.

Gratefully, you fold yourself into his embrace, tucking your head beneath his chin. His arm drapes itself automatically over you, and he’s asleep moments later. Despite the awkwardness of the whole situation, his presence is a soothing balm to your fears. Soon, his breathing evens out, and you can tell he’s dozed off again. You let yourself be engulfed in him, in the sound of his heart, the smell of his skin, the feel of his arm draped over your waist. _It feels good._

You relax, and exhaustion takes hold of you. With his soft snoring as a lullaby, you drift off into a deep and dreamless slumber.


	7. Chapter 7

In the coming days, Guzma’s classes see a noticeable uptick in new arrivals. Every day at the rec center there seem to be new faces showing up to his classes. The social media pages you launched have seen a lot of traffic since their creation. It certainly helps that you take photos of him from time to time and post them on the internet. You get the distinct impression that many of the new students are there for the same reason you joined.

Stupid, sexy Guzma.

One new recruit, however, subverts expectations. Indeed, he seems to have no interest in Guzma whatsoever. An excitable young man around your age, with sweet brown eyes and dark green dreads he keeps tied in a tail at the top of his head. His exuberance for almost everything is infectious, and you find yourself conversing with him in the moments between classes. He introduces himself as Hau Tilo, and tells you all about a variety of things. Mostly, you’re just glad to listen as he talks about his family, his life in Alola, his favorite pokemon, his favorite foods, his favorite music -- Hau has a _lot_ of favorites.

One day after class, Hau asks if you’d like to come back to his place for something called “malasada”. Apparently it’s some kind of food. You would’ve gladly taken him up on his offer, but Guzma had swiftly interjected with a reminder that you had rehearsals. 

Hau seemed to not notice Guzma’s suspicious glowering as he’d waved you goodbye. He persisted in asking, though, but each time Guzma was there, ready to come up with some excuse as to why you had to stay. 

Is he jealous?

Ever since that stormy night in his trailer, you and Guzma have been closer. During classes, you catch him staring at you often, an unreadable expression on his face. The second you meet his gaze, he always turns away. The squirmy feeling in your chest gets progressively worse. And the _rehearsals_. Now when the music ends, he lingers just a bit too long, almost reluctant to part from you. It’s not unwelcome, but you do feel as if your heart might leap out of your chest one of these days. Despite the present awkwardness, you feel more and more comfortable around him as time continues. The practices have become even harder and much more frequent, but your body is steadily changing. You no longer become winded within moments and you begin to _crave_ movement more often. Your confidence grows with each passing day, even with the competition looming ever closer on the horizon.

One day, only a few days from the first preliminary elimination, a woman shows up to the classes that throws your whole blossoming confidence into disarray. She’s older, in her early 50’s, with platinum blonde hair, and _flawless_ makeup. Who wears makeup to a dance class? Her dance clothes are from an expensive brand, and she gives this air of an gracefully aging supermodel. Her loyal lillipup sits in her large tote bag by the door and watches, silent and judgemental. You get the impression that if she wanted dance lessons, she has the money to hire a professional choreographer.

Yet here she is, in a rec center for poor and middle class average joes, laughing airily at all of Guzma’s jokes, touching him however she can, and dancing like she’s going to get an award for it. To his credit, Guzma’s interest in her seems to be entirely professional, teaching her the steps and how to move, but this woman finds new ways to be near him, to touch him, and it sets your heart thudding in your ears every time you see them together.

“Hey, you alright?” asks Hau. 

After class, while everyone is packing up their belongings, this woman, this Lusamine, has once again stolen Guzma’s attention. You’re having a hard time pretending not to be anything but incensed.

“What?” You look up, Hau’s voice startling you from your thoughts. “O-Oh… yeah, I just…” You gesture with your chin towards Guzma and Lusamine. “What’s with her?”

Hau follows your gaze. “Her? No idea, you’re asking the wrong guy. I’m not from around here,” he says, hefting his bag over his shoulder and shaking his head. “She seems to be really into that Guzma guy.”

“Yeah, that’s what I mean.” You know that you have no right to be as bothered as you are, but that doesn’t stop you. Chewing on your lip, you watch as Lusamine leans in to whisper something in Guzma’s ear. It takes all your willpower not to yank him away.

Hau’s eyes flick from you to Guzma and back again. “W-Wait, are _you_ into that Guzma guy? _Auwē!!_ ”

“What!” This manages to tear your gaze away from the scene before you. Cheeks immediately inflamed, your eyes snap to Hau’s face. “No, no… God, don’t be dumb.”

_Yeah, he doesn’t believe you._

“Oh, sure, sure. Not at all obvious from the way you can’t stop staring at him and the idea that another person might snatch him up has you so upset you’re chewing your lip bloody.” He smirks knowingly.

Immediately you force your face into an impassive stare, and fold your arms over your chest. “I just don’t trust her, I mean _look at her._ She’s rich enough to afford her own personal trainer. What’s she doing here?”

Hau shrugs. “Alright, so you wanna come to my place for some malasadas, then? Secret family recipe, direct from Alola.” He offers you his most charming smile.

“Oh, um. I’m sorry, you’re really sweet, I just have… plans.” It feels like a lame excuse, and it is, but it’s all you can think of. And technically, you _do_ have plans. They just involve someone else.

Hau shakes his head, grinning a little. “Yeah, sure. Catch ya later.” He waves as he disappears out the doors.

You feel a little guilty hurting his feelings like that, but Hau’s a remarkably upbeat guy. It’d take more than a rejection to knock him on his ass. You do like him, just not that way. As a friend.

As much as you’re loathe to admit it, your heart is set on someone else.

“Guzma, are you ready?” you ask, interrupting the half-whispered conversation between him and Lusamine.

At the sound of his name, Guzma looks up, blinking in surprise. “Oh, yeah, uh. Excuse me, Miss Hosenka.” He affords her a polite smile, before stepping away to speak with you. 

She smirks at you over Guzma’s shoulder, but you pretend not to see.

“You said we’d be doing lift practice today, right?” you say as the two of you get out of earshot.

“Yeah, yeah, I did say that. Um.” He glances over his shoulder at Lusamine, who has bent down to rummage through her duffel bag. Guzma’s gaze lingers for just a bit too long. 

A creeping unease settles in your chest.

“Guzma?”

“Yeah!” He whips back around to face you, cheeks pink, and scratches at his undercut. “Listen, um. We’ve been workin’ real hard, yeah? I think I’m gonna go out for drinks with Miss Hosenka. You go home, chill for a night, aight?” He grins that same crooked, rogueish grin that got you into this situation in the first place.

Despite how your heart feels like it’s been stabbed through with ice, you force a smile.

“Yeah, sure. H-Have fun.”

“I’ll text ya, okay?” Briefly, he grips your upper arm, and without further preamble, turns back to Lusamine. The pair of them walk out the door, chatting animatedly. You don’t pretend to be interested in their conversation. 

As you make your way from the rec center, you struggle to comprehend your own emotions. _Why_ does the idea of Guzma hanging out with other people in a romantic way make you feel as if you’ve swallowed a cruise missile? He’s not _yours_ to be jealous over. You’re just friends, right? And yet here you are, lost in mental turmoil at the thought of him and her together, drinking, dancing, laughing… _other things_. Your feet move of their own accord, and moments later you find yourself standing outside the rec center in the parking lot. 

“Hey!” A nearby voice tears you from your reverie. “I thought you had plans?” Hau approaches, pulling an earbud from his ear and smiling. “They fall through?”

“You could say that.” Another impulsive idea comes to you. “Is that offer for dinner still open?” 

Hau’s smile transforms into a full-blown grin. “Hell yea it is! C’mon, my granddad’s almost finished up, he can give us a ride.”

For a moment, you’re confused. Does he mean his grandfather works at the rec center? As if summoned by your thoughts, the double doors open and an elderly gentleman exits the building. Wearing an Alolan shirt, slacks, and a pair of sandals despite the autumn chill, this portly man approaches and his bushy white moustache twitches into a smile. His eyes are hidden beneath dark brows, and his silver hair is pulled back into a tail that matches Hau’s.

“Ah, Hau, my boy. Who is this?” He offers you a hand and allows you to introduce yourself. “I’m Hala Tilo.”

“Pleased to meet you.” You smile as he shakes your hand, and then the familiarity of the name clicks. “Oh, uh, Hala. Like co-director Hala?”

He nods. “One and the same. I take it you are part of young Mr. Bromley’s dance class as well?” He chuckles, and gestures towards the parking lot. “Yes, quite volatile that one is.”

“He’s just really passionate,” you reply defensively. 

“Well, whatever he might be, there’s a reason I offered him a job the moment I saw him dance. The boy has talent.”

“Yeah, he’s really good. His team have a shot at nationals.” You hesitate, but the stress of everything finally bursts. “I’m helping them get there after someone got injured.”

“Oh? And how is that going?”

“It’s going… great.” You slide into the backseat behind Hau. _Please, just leave it at that._

“He blew off rehearsals for some hot older chick, Gramps.” Hau glances apologetically behind him, but you’re staring pointedly out the window.

It stings more than you thought it would, to have it put so bluntly out there. You try hard not to let it get to you, but before you can stop them, tears come. Your throat constricts painfully, making swallowing nearly impossible. Your vision blurs. Embarrassment and shame wells up within you, and you hastily wipe at your eyes with the heel of your hand.

“Hau…” sighs Hala, shaking his head. He glances in the rearview mirror at you. “Don’t you worry. He’ll realize he’s crazy about you in time. Boys his age tend to be…” He pointedly glares at the chagrined Hau. “Stupid.”

“Yeah…” A watery hiccup of a laugh escapes you, and you dry your eyes with the neck of your t-shirt. “Yeah, they can be. Thanks, Mr. Tilo.”

“You call me Hala, alright?” He meets your gaze in the rearview mirror again, and his eyes crinkle with a smile. “Now, we’ll go home and we’ll eat some dinner and you’ll be alright.”

That does sound pretty good. Your smile becomes less emotional and more genuine, and you nod with enthusiasm. Hala’s eyes crinkle further as he smiles, and the car heads deeper into the city. The ride is short, and Hau is mercifully quiet. You get the distinct impression he’s embarrassed for upsetting you. The two of them live in an apartment in the heart of Ryme City. They’d moved here a year or so ago, after Hala’s penpal, Nanu, had offered him the co-director job. It’s just Hala, Hau, and their pet litten, Ember. You follow them up the two flights of stairs to their door, and scurry inside when the door opens.

The apartment is small but not too small. Just enough space for two people to live comfortably. It’s mostly undistinguished, but there are furnishings that make it truly unique. The coffee table is made of wicker, the couch from a bright, warm wood, with lots of Alolan prints incorporated throughout. Pictures of family members, paintings of Alolan sunsets, and so many potted plants you feel as if you’re in a jungle make the space feel like a warm breeze on a summer day. The litten, Ember, peeks out from between the wide fronds of a pinap tree, and mews curiously as you approach.

“So, what is Alola like?” you ask, sitting down on the couch. Ember immediately leaps from her hiding place and settles in your lap. You recently discovered that both Plumeria and Guzma had grown up in Alola together, and moved to Ryme City when they were kids, and you admit you’re curious about the region.

Hau’s eyes light up and you feel the tiniest twinge of regret.

For a few hours, you sit with Hau and Hala, listening to their stories from Alola. Hala makes malasadas, a kind of fried doughnut from their home region. They’re absolutely delicious. Ember takes a liking to you almost immediately, and spends the entire evening in your lap. You’re more than happy to give her as many chin scratches as she wants. Eventually, the hour becomes late, and you can’t stop yourself from yawning every few minutes. Gratefully, you accept a ride home from Hau. Hala insists on sending you a small container of malasadas.

“Hanging out with you was hella fun,” Hau says, as he drives you home. The sun is setting, painting the sky pinks and orange and yellow. “We should do it again sometime.”

“Yeah, I’d like that,” you say, turning away from your window and smiling at him. “Although one of these days, I should really get a car of my own. Seems like I’m being chauffeured a lot lately.”

“Eh, I don’t mind. More time to hang out with you.”

You blush and allow the conversation to fall into a comfortable silence. You like Hau -- he’s a sweet, funny guy. _But he isn’t Guzma._ The thought comes to you out of nowhere and it steals your breath away. Not the thought itself, but the fact that it’s _true._ You spend the remainder of he ride home in a contemplative haze. When Hau pulls into your driveway, there’s a surprise waiting for you.

Guzma’s sitting on your back porch, his elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands. At the sound of the car, he lifts his head. His gaze flicks from Hau’s face to yours, and stays there, brows squeezed together in an uncertain frown. Trepidation and anxiety blossoms fully in your chest. You inhale a deep, steadying breath.

“Oh, fuck. Hau, you’d better get out of here. This might get awkward. Thank you for giving me a ride home,” you say, shooting him a rueful smile.

“Anytime.”

You lean over and pull him into a one-armed hug, and exit the car. Hau gives you a wave, and soon you are alone with Guzma. For a long moment, the two of you only stare at one another. Suddenly, it’s almost as if you’re acquaintances or perfect strangers again, unsure of what to say to one another. You never expected it to hurt this much. You _hate_ that it does.

“How were drinks with Miss Hosenka?” You’re impressed that your voice comes out as even as it does, despite the frantic hammering of your heart in your ears.

His expression is nothing short of agonized. A muscle in his jaw jumps once, twice, three times. “Listen,” he says, in a raw, tortured voice. “I fucked up, aight? I shoulda never blew you off, okay? Is that what you wanna hear? That I’m a big fuckup?

With a scoff of annoyance, you brush past him and fish out your keys. A harsh growl of a sigh escapes him, but you don’t turn around. If you don’t look at him, maybe it’ll be easier.

“I’m a fuckin’ idiot, I know. I knew the second I walked away that I was makin’ a huge mistake, and I’m _sorry._ Please.”

The please is what catches your attention. You peek at him over your shoulder. He stands there, expression pleading and desperate. You sigh. Suddenly you feel bone-tired, and your bed is calling your name. Hand on the doorknob, you turn to face him fully.

“Alright, forget about it, okay? I-I’ll see you tomorrow for class and rehearsal. The prelims are this weekend.”

“...I really am sorry. My whole life, I’ve been told I was nothin’, that I come from nothin’ and in a heartbeat, I could be back to that. Then I get this job and some of these people…” He cards his fingers through his hair, giving you a beseeching look. “They really take care of themselves, yanno, and they throw themselves at me like that and-and…” He trails off, grimacing. “I fucked up.”

“It’s okay.” You raise and lower a shoulder in a slight shrug. “I really had no business getting as upset as I did, anyway.” You smile, and to your surprise, it feels genuine. “You’re not mine to be jealous over, right?” Saying the words out loud seems to solidify them somehow.

The words seem to slam into him with the force of a speeding car into a brick wall, and for a moment he is stunned to silence. It seems as if the realization is hitting him as hard as it hit you, and he takes a step back, nodding slowly. He’s having a hard time pretending to be anything but stricken.

“Right.”

“Mom’s off work tomorrow so you don’t have to worry about picking me up. I can drive.”

“...I don’t mind, it’s on the way.”

“Nah, it’s alright. Good night, Guzma.” With a little wave of your fingers, you open the door and slip inside. Guzma simply stares after you, and you barely catch his nearly-whispered words.

“G’night.”

You head upstairs, your thoughts a confusing, maddening whirl. In a haze, you shower and change into comfy clothes. You afford a glance out your bedroom window into the backyard, to make sure Guzma has gone (he has), and sit down at your computer to check your social media. The class pages are still seeing upswings in traffic, which is a good sign. Hopefully Nanu will back off now. You add a few pics from your phone that you took during the day. You pointedly erase any that contain even _hints_ of Lusamine Hosenka. 

Here’s one of him and you that you had snapped before class started. It was mostly Guzma, playfully scowling up at the camera, but he’s behind you. You had framed it so that he was peering up at the camera over your shoulder. He’s so close, his chest is brushing against your back. You recall the wild impulse, quickly stamped out, to turn your head and kiss his cheek. The memory of it sets off that squirmy feeling behind your rib cage.

You post it to the class pages. You’re not sure if Lusamine checks the pages but it makes you feel better regardless. 

You close your laptop, and turn off the desk lamp. Your room is lit by only the glow of your bedside lamp now. You know you should sleep, but you’re just not tired. You want someone to talk to. As if summoned by your very thoughts, your phone starts to vibrate in your hand. It’s Leslie.

“Soooo that pic you just posted. Looks like you’re getting cozy with the teacher.” There’s a smile to her voice, teasing but gentle. You flush.

“Les, it was for the class page, okay? Please don’t make it into a thing…” You sink down onto your bed, laying flat on your back and stretching out your legs. 

“How’s that going, by the way?”

“Good,” you say, and it’s the honest truth. “I might actually invite people to come watch me perform. Wanna watch me make a fool of myself in front of a live audience?”

“Are you kidding? Of course I do!” She laughs. “You’re going to be amazing, though, so I think I’ll be disappointed.”

“I hope so. I kinda like this dancing stuff. It’s fun and I think I’m getting the hang of it. The preliminaries are this weekend.” You hesitate, before plowing on ahead. “Do you think you could come and watch? Emotional support would be the shit right now.”

Leslie laughs. “Yeah, I just said I’d come watch, didn’t I? I’d be happy to come and give you some support.”

You feel better about this weekend already. Knowing that you’ll have a friend there to support you takes a great weight off your chest. You breathe a sigh. Now to figure out how best to breach the _other_ subject. Best to just get it over with.

“Guzma… kinda blew me off today. We were supposed to rehearse and he… went to go have drinks with this woman from class.”

“Oh?” 

“I’m stupid. I got all upset even though… I have no reason to be. It’s not like we’re dating.” You drape your arm over your eyes in embarrassment.

“No, but anyone with eyes can see you two are crazy about each other.” 

You want to argue, but what’s the point? The truth is, you’ve been fighting your feelings for him for awhile now, and you know it. _That’s_ why him blowing you off hurt as much as it did. A tiny, hopeful part of you had thought… maybe he felt the same way you did, that maybe you two could be happy together. When he walked away, that hopeful voice was effectively squashed. You heave a sigh.

“Well, I know _I_ am, but obviously he doesn’t see me that way.”

“You know, with a guy like Guzma… he probably doesn’t think someone as great as you could possibly like him. Low self esteem does horrible things to a person.”

“...You really think so?” You dare not hope but the little squirmy feeling in your heart seems to be getting stronger. It wriggles to life, too stubborn to die so easily.

“I do. Just give him time. He’ll come around.”

“Thanks, Les.”

“And if he breaks your heart, I’ll break his fucking kneecaps.”

You both burst into laughter at the absurdity of this statement. Leslie always did know what to say to make you feel better. It’s one of your favorite things about her. A sudden wave of fatigue washes over you, and you find your laughter broken by jaw-cracking yawns.

“I better get to bed. I think Guzma’s gonna ramp up the rehearsals with the first elimination coming up…”

“Text me and let me know when it’s gonna start, okay? I’ll be there.”

“Thanks, Les, I will. Good night!”

“Good night!”

You hang up your phone just in time to see Percy sauntering in through the slightly ajar door. He leaps onto your bed, seeking pets and attention, which you happily comply with. He settles against the back of your thigh like a hot water bottle, warm and soothing. With another wide yawn, you snuggle beneath the blankets, and turn off your bedside lamp. The room is bathed in darkness, and sleep comes remarkably easy. Your dreams are simple and easy, punctuated by anxiety-riddled visions of failing at the preliminaries. It’s a rough night of tossing and turning, and your alarm rings much too early.

When you awake, it is with a renewed resolve. Even if you weren’t crushing hard on one of them, you still don’t want to let Team Skull down. You promised you’d get them to nationals, and that’s exactly what you intend to do.


	8. Chapter 8

The first elimination round of the competition looms closer and closer. Practices have nearly tripled in the next few days, and anxiety sets up a permanent residence in the pit of your stomach. At random intervals throughout the day, your mind comes up with some new worst-case-scenario nightmare and replays it ad nauseum until you’re borderline bursting into tears. But you manage to power through it.

The atmosphere of the after-class rehearsals mirrors your own trepidation. More than once, a Team Skull member rushes from the stage to regurgitate their previous meals into a garbage can. The only one who seems immune to nerves is Guzma himself. 

“C’mon, guys, ya’ll are overreactin’!” he says, half-laughing, as Reese claps a hand over his mouth and scurries off the stage. “We got this! It’s just the first fuckin’ elimination!”

You can’t say you blame them for being nervous. You feel on edge almost all the time as the days leading up to that first elimination slip by at lightning speed. The only thing that keeps you from going totally batshit is the tiniest of confidence the extra practices have afforded you. You practice the movements of the routine every waking hour, until it’s nearly burned into your memory. Sometimes, you find yourself going through the motions without realizing, until you get weird looks from your mother during dinner. 

“Guzma, this is the first time for most of us, alright? Chill,” Plumeria says, looking up from her phone. In the weeks since her injury, Plumeria’s ankle has been on the mend, but she’s still soundly out of the count. “We’re fuckin’ nervous.”

“I know, but we ain’t got nothin’ to be nervous about!” he says, shooting her a confident smile. “We’re gonna run a fuckin’ train on those other assholes.”

You appreciate his confidence. It does little to soothe your anxiety, but you appreciate it nonetheless. Ever since he blew off practice, the two of you have been sort of dancing around one another, literally _and_ figuratively. It feels awkward again, as if all the friend progress the two of you had made was erased. You worry that the routine will suffer because of this interpersonal setback, but no one else seems to notice a change. At least, no one is saying anything. Lifts are still a little unsteady and unsure, if only because you’re trying not to concentrate on the feel of his muscular arms around your waist. 

All too soon, the dawn of the final day arrives. You awake almost an hour before your alarm goes off, your dreams plagued with more of the worst-case-scenarios your anxiety-riddled brain has cooked up. With your stolen time, you do some last minute practice in front of your mirror, trying to burn the movements into your muscle memory.

It’s as if time is stuck in fast forward. The hours seem to speed by, and soon, Guzma is waiting for you. He leans against the driver’s door of his car, holding a grocery bag full of something in one hand. When you approach, he cracks that familiar, lopsided grin, squinting at you in the early morning sun.

“Howzit! Got a lil present for ya.”

“Oh?”

He extends the grocery bag towards you. “Meant to have it awhile ago, but I’m a dumbfuck.”

Curiously, you peek inside the bag, and partially pull out a soft black hoodie. The back is emblazoned with a familiar symbol -- the stylized S of Team Skull. It’s a uniform, one that matches the rest of the squad. It’s a small gesture, you know, but it still hits you unexpectedly hard. You try to speak, to express your gratitude, but your throat constricts around the words, squeezing them from existence. You can only swallow, and give him a watery smile as tears blur the edges of your vision.

“Had to guess on ya size, but the uniforms are s’posed to be kinda -- _oof!_ ”

The rest of his sentence is lost. You interrupt him, throwing your arms around his middle in a tight hug. As his arms hesitantly come around your torso, you bury your face into his shoulder, fighting tears. 

“Hey,” he says, half-laughing, and there’s a tenderness to his voice that makes your heart lurch. “It’s aight, no need to get all gooey on me.” Nonetheless, he squeezes you, his chin resting on the top of your head.

You manage to find your voice. “Thank you.”

“You part of the squad now, we had to make it official.” His voice is quiet, too. You get the distinct impression he’s unused to physical affection. He squirms a little. “There’s some shoes to go with it, too, just to make sure you’re properly stylin’ before we hit the stage.”

With these words, your anxiety rears its ugly head again, slapping you full force across the face. You lift your head with a groan and look him in the eye.

“What if I forget the steps?”

“You _won’t_.” Guzma grips your upper arms and gives you the tiniest of shakes. “You know the routine inside and out at this point. You worked so fuckin’ hard. We’re gonna nail this.”

Despite your tension, you manage a little smile. 

Your mind wars with itself, stuck somewhere between fearful and fearless. You mostly just feel nauseous. Much too quickly, you and Guzma arrive. The preliminary eliminations are being held in the gym of a local community college in the suburbs of Ryme City, and when you enter the wide doors, the place is a flood of activity. You follow Guzma through the throng of people and pokemon, eyes darting around, taking in everything. The gym’s stair-like seating have been pulled out to accommodate the audience, with the rest of the floor space divided into equal size performance spaces. As you thread your way through the crowd, you pass by a stage or two, each in use by a different squad while the judges watch. Anxiety gnaws ceaselessly at your gut.

You find the rest of Team Skull outside the huge gymnasium, stretching and practicing in a small corner. Guzma greets them enthusiastically, slapping palms and pulling people into one-armed hugs.

“Yo, we registered?” asks Guzma. He shrugs out of his hoodie and digs in a duffel bag. 

“Workin’ on it.” Plumeria lifts and wiggles a clipboard full of papers. Scarlet, her salazzle, is curled around her cast, hissing at any unfamiliar passerby. Plumeria offers you a kind smile before returning to the clipboard. “How ya doin’ there, rookie?”

All you can do is give a strangled kind of groan. She chuckles.

“Yeah, that sounds about right. Guzma give you the uniform?”

Mutely, you nod. You don’t trust your voice just yet. You’re on the lookout for a familiar group of people, wearing shockingly uniform outfits, most likely followed by a sneasel.

“Cool, you can go change in the bathroom over that way, and I’ll go take up the paperwork.” She levers out of her chair with help from Frankie and her crutch. She punches you playfully in the arm as she passes.

“This way,” says Guzma, sidling past you with the duffel bag over his shoulder. He takes your hand in his, and you’re too overwhelmed by the chaos to do anything besides allow yourself to be led.

Hands connected, the pair of you wind your way through the crowd, eventually escaping the sea of people for the relatively sparse hallways. Guzma leads you to the co-ed bathrooms, which are mercifully empty. You slip into a stall, he steps into the one next to you, and you both start changing clothes.

“You’ve been here before? You know your way around.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and the sound of shuffling clothes is the only noise to be heard. He clears his throat. “...Yeah, uh. I used to… um. Go here.”

You stumble over your pants, knocking into the stall’s door. “W-What? Really?” You wish you could see his face.

“It was only for a year or two, I didn’t graduate or nothin’.”

“What happened?”

“I’ll tell ya later, aight? Right now, we gotta focus on this. There’s time for pathetic backstory after we stomp these guys.”

He’s right, of course, but that doesn’t stop the curiosity burning in your mind. At the very least, it’s distracted you from your own anxieties. You change clothes in silence, trying to imagine college student Guzma and what could’ve possibly stopped him from finishing. You step out, wearing the new Team Skull uniform. It’s baggier than you’d normally prefer, but that’s likely on purpose. You take a moment to eye your reflection as Guzma joins you by the mirror. He cards his fingers through his hair in a vain attempt to tame the fluffy nest. He tilts his head from side to side, looking over his reflection with a critical eye. The derisive wrinkle to his nose tells you plain and simple that he’s not thrilled with what he sees.

Then his grey eyes flick to you, and a slow, crooked smile curves his lip. His eyes travel the entire length of you, drinking you in. You blush, but you can’t say that the attention is unwelcome. 

“Fuck yeah, you look great,” he says, and extends his hand towards you. Still blushing, you take it, and allow him to pull you closer. “You got this,” he says, voice quiet but intense, with a fierce look to his eyes. “You’re gonna fuckin’ rock.”

A different kind of nervousness that has nothing to do with the competition washes over you then. His just-for-you smile, his hand wrapped around yours, his thumb brushing against your knuckles -- it all has your heart beating just a little bit too fast. 

Your hand still firmly resting in his, Guzma leads you back to the rest of Team Skull. Registration complete, Plumeria has taken up the mantle of coach to the rest. She paces between them as they practice, one crutch tucked beneath her arm.

“Wanna get in some practice?” Guzma asks, giving your hand a little squeeze.

Before you can answer, a familiar voice makes you jump.

“Well, well. Looks like Team _Numbskull_ showed their faces. Come to steal more pokemon? Or have you moved on to stealing routines now?” 

The crowd surrounding your little area parts, and Gladion strides forward, his sneasel and lackeys in step behind him. Scarlet the salazzle hisses in anger. Gladion’s face still bears faint bruises from his last brush with Team Skull, with a noticeable plaster across his still-mending nose. 

Guzma stiffens beside you, and his hand drops yours with such speed, it’s as if your palm suddenly burned him. 

“Gladion.” Plumeria’s voice is light and pleasant, almost as if greeting an acquaintance she hasn’t seen in weeks. “Your nose looks like shit.” She smiles, a wide, friendly smile. “Hope the judges don’t take marks off for that.”

Gladion visibly bristles, but his eyes remain locked on Guzma’s. Without even thinking, you shift a step to the side, once again putting yourself between the two of them. Gladion completely ignores you this time. He has eyes only for Guzma.

“What do you want, shitstain? I ain’t got time for you,” snarls Guzma.

“Just wanted to make sure you got a good seat, you won’t want to miss our performance.” Gladion’s lips curl into a mirthless smirk.

“We’ll be sure to look for you from our spot in the winner’s circle. Now fuck off before you get your nose re-broke,” says Reese, stepping up beside Guzma and folding his arms over his chest. The rest of Team Skull edges towards Gladion, electric anger sparking through the air. This could get ugly, but your main concern is keeping Guzma from lunging for Gladion. With his chest pressed against your back the way it is, his intentions are clear.

“Now, now, there’s no need for violence,” says another familiar voice. Wearing a white and pink tennis dress and her platinum blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, Lusamine Hosenka saunters to the front of the pack. “Why, hello again, Mr. Bromley. A shame you couldn’t join me for drinks, but no matter. Gladdy, dear,” she coos, turning to Gladion and smoothing his hair away from his face. “Mummy’s going to go get herself a good seat, alright?” She leans in to press a quick kiss to his forehead, and waves her fingers in farewell.

_Mummy?!_

Guzma looks as if he’s just swallowed a live grenade. His face has gone ghostly pale, jaw hanging open, eyes wide, following after Lusamine as the crowd swallows her and she disappears. Everyone’s eyes are on him, the shock on their faces plain to see. Your blood has been replaced with ice.

Gladion’s smile becomes downright shit-eating. Clearly this was the reaction he was looking for. “See ya, bug boy. Null Squad, move out!” He snaps his fingers, and with nearly mechanical precision, they turn on their heel and are soon lost in the crowd.

“You had _drinks_ with Gladion’s mom?!” Plumeria hisses, picking up an empty soda can and hurling in Guzma’s direction. It clatters against the back of his head, but he’s too shellshocked to notice.

“I didn’t know, okay!! Shit!” He cards his fingers through his hair, looking distraught.

“ _You didn’t know??_ You didn’t know that _natural platinum blonde_ Lusamine was _natural platinum blonde_ Gladion’s mother?” asks Frankie, her own expression mirroring the sudden distress overtaking everyone.

“No!” he snarls, whirling on her. “No, I didn’t, aight?? Let’s all stare at Guzma and make him feel like a fuckin’ moron some more!” He turns and viciously kicks a duffel bag, sending its contents flying. With a string of Alolan expletives, he stalks off, quickly disappearing in the crowd.

Plumeria sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of her nose. She takes a few calming breaths before lifting her head. Beseechingly, she looks to you. “You’d better go get him back before he does somethin’ stupid.”

Heart pounding, you scurry after him, following that white shock of hair through the chaotic mob. The throng of people and pokemon thins considerably outside, and you find Guzma stewing several feet away from the double doors. Back to the wall, he’s squatting on his haunches, head in his hands, angrily muttering to himself in Alolan. You approach casually, leaning back against the rough brick wall of the gymnasium. You don’t speak, you simply wait. After a moment or two, he blows out a harsh sigh.

“I’m so fuckin’ stupid,” he says, in a tortured voice.

“You’re not.”

“I can’t stop fuckin’ up,” he says, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes.

“Everyone makes mistakes.”

“I’m just --”

“Guzma, _stop it_.” You move around and drop to your knees in front of him. “They deliberately kept information from you. How were you supposed to know?” Gently but firmly, you pry his hands away from his face, forcing him to look you in the eye. “You gotta stop beating yourself up like this.”

His expression agonized, he only stares at you for a long moment, his gaze almost boring into yours. When he opens his mouth to speak, he’s immediately interrupted by an announcement over the PA system.

“Null Squad, you’re up, stage D. Team Skull, you’re on deck.”

The anxiety returns, spiking like electric ice through your veins, but you manage a smile, for his sake. Your hand finds Guzma’s and you pull him to his feet. “C’mon, let’s go kick the shit outta this thing.”

A small smile curves his lip, and he allows himself to be led back into the gymnasium. Team Skull is waiting for you, standing next to the stage currently occupied by Gladion and his team. Guzma’s hand stays clasped around yours as you watch Null Squad’s routine. Mentally, you’re trying to run through the routine, but your mind keeps focusing on the feel of Guzma’s callused thumb rubbing across your knuckles. It’s probably meant to be a soothing gesture, but it only makes your heart leap into your throat. You chance a glimpse at him out of the corner of your eye. To your surprise, he’s not watching Null Squad. He’s looking at you.

When you meet his gaze, he smiles, and gives your hand a little squeeze. You feel immediately reassured. You can do this.

Gladion’s team is good. Their movements are almost military in their precision and execution, but the routine is too cold, too mechanical. Your gaze flicks to the judges’ table. The three of them are seated at a cloth-covered table, writing down notes on their clipboards. With a funny little jolt in your stomach, you notice that Hala is one of them. He catches you staring at him and gives a little wave of acknowledgement. You smile and return it. You’re not sure if this makes you less nervous or more.

And then, after an eternity of waiting, the dreaded moment finally arrives. Amid the cacophonous roar of the crowd seated in the stands, Gladion’s team exits the stage, and you know what’s coming.

“Next up, Team Skull! It’s Super Effective, you’re on deck!”

Your legs suddenly feel like jelly, and yet somehow you manage to move. As you take the stage with the rest of team skull, you cast your gaze out across the audience seated in the stands. You catch a glimpse of your mother and your friend, Leslie, seated next to each other. Even Hau is sitting next to them. They’re frantically waving their arms in an attempt to get your attention. You manage a weak smile and a little wave in their direction before you’re guided into position by Guzma. In those few moments before the music starts, he meets your gaze and gives you the tiniest of nods.

The music begins, thumping hard and fast and loud through the speakers. It’s as if the rest of the world falls away, leaving only you and Guzma. You surprise yourself with how quickly your muscle memory takes over and how much of the dance you perform by sheer instinct alone. Only twice do you slip. You misjudge the distance between yourself and Guzma and he has to awkwardly lunge forward to meet you in the correct place. For half a heartbeat, you wonder if anyone noticed, but your thoughts are immediately preoccupied with not fucking up. When the time comes for the show-stopping lift, a sudden swooping fear clutches at your stomach and you draw yourself up short. Flustered and embarrassed, you do the first thing that comes to mind. In the moment, you’re not really sure _what_ this dance is called, this vertical movement of your arms. It’s definitely _not_ in the routine. With a stifled snort of laughter, Guzma grabs your hand and resumes the proper steps. A small wave of laughter arises from the crowd and you try your hardest not to think about it.

And in a flash, it’s over. You’re holding that last pose, breathing hard, as the crowd erupts into a thunderous roar of applause. A surge of pride and exultation fills you to the brim, and you beam at the crowd as you and Team Skull take your leave of the stage. The moment you’re off, all the adrenaline building within suddenly drains from your system, and you find yourself clinging to Guzma’s arm for support. Your legs feel like jelly again.

“That was kickass!” says Plumeria, hobbling up to you, grinning from ear to ear. “Holy shit, you did so fuckin’ good!!!” She pulls you into a one-armed hug that somehow manages to not be awkward.

“I didn’t do the lift,” is all you can manage, half-heartedly smiling. Several members of Team Skull playfully smack you on the shoulder. Cleo ruffles your hair. Even Frankie, the unfriendly girl, rolls her eyes and gives you a decidedly friendly smile.

“Shut the fuck up, you did fuckin’ amazin’ for someone who couldn’t even do the cha-cha slide a coupla weeks ago,” says Guzma, shooting you a grin. Your heart does a little flip at the pride in his eyes.

Out of nowhere, a pair of familiar arms embrace you from behind, and suddenly your mother is squeezing you so tight you can barely draw breath. You rotate to face her, allowing yourself to feel that perhaps childish safety of being in your mother’s arms. She kisses your cheeks and forehead, too overcome with pride and love to really speak, but you don’t need to hear words. You bury your face in her shoulder, and feel at peace for the first time in a long while. Seconds later, Hau and Leslie pile into the hug, both animatedly talking about just how _amazing_ you did.

You don’t feel that you did _amazing._ But you did it. You didn’t fall flat on your face, you didn’t trip over your feet, you didn’t puke. And there’s a pride to be found from that simple fact; _you didn’t fail spectacularly._

After a few more minutes of celebration, your mother, Hau, and Leslie all return to their seats. Guzma and the rest of Team Skull find a spot near the bleachers to sit and await the announcement of the results. You sit gratefully on the floor, limbs dead from the lack of adrenaline now. The rest of Team Skull seems animated, energized. Some of them separate into the crowd to find food or drink or bathrooms. 

With a groan of exertion, Guzma sits gracelessly beside you, shoulder bumping against yours as he hands you a cold, damp bottle of water.

“Thanks.”

“So uh…” He shoots you a teasing grin as he uncaps his own bottle. “That move you did in the middle there --”

“Ugh, god… Guzma -- _”_

“What d’ya call that, it was uh... pretty dope.” He looks as if he’s trying not to laugh. _God, he’s a dick._

Cheeks flushing, you push him away with one hand, an embarrassed grin on your face. “Shut up!” you groan.

He doesn’t resist your shove at all, and instead crumples like a broken mimikyu disguise. “What, maybe I’ll put it into the routine,” he says, the laugh he tried so valiantly to hold back before now bubbling forth. He straightens and mimics the awkward grookey-like movements you’d made in your panic. “The judges’ll love it.”

“Guzma Bromley, I will end you with my bare hands.” You push his shoulder again, laughing, and keep pushing until he’s nearly flat on his back in front of you.

“Ooh, ouch, ouch, usin’ the full name! That’s a low blow!” He chuckles, blocking each new assault until both of your wrists are locked in his grasp. He sticks out his tongue, affording you another brief glimpse of that silver piercing.

You stick out your own tongue in response. _Mature._ “Ugh, you’re such a dick.” You pull your wrists from his grasp, trying to silence that tiny voice in your head that says you _love_ his teasing.

Guzma remains horizontal in front of you, propping his head up on one hand and grinning that cockeyed, shit-eating grin that you both hate and love. His expression slowly softens, and he wets his lips before continuing. “Seriously, though, um... you did fuckin’ great. I’m uh…” He clears his throat. “I’m real proud of you.”

Your heart clenches a little at the sincerity to his words, and your smile falters. Sometimes, he gives you these looks, these intense, serious, _longing_ looks… They take your breath away. The moment becomes too much, and in averting your gaze, you manage to find your grin again.

“Yeah, well, don’t thank me just yet. Those little slip-ups of mine might’ve cost you guys your shot.”

“Hey.” He pushes on your knee. “You did good, aight? Take the fuckin’ compliment.”

“Make me.” The audacity of the words startle even you. They leave your lips before you can stop them, but the result is almost worth it. His eyebrows shoot up, disappearing beneath his bangs.

“U-Uh…” His brains seems to have temporarily short-circuited. Good. It’s about time he felt some of that himself. He’s been doing it to you so much -- now the tables have turned. “Um. I’m. I, uh. I’m gonna go… to the uh.” He gets to his feet, scratching at his undercut and gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb. “Whizz palace.” He grimaces, cheeks turning crimson. “Ha… haha, I mean _bathroom_. I’m gonna… go --” And without another word, he turns on his heel and disappears into the crowd.

You catch sight of Plumeria staring with an unreadable expression nearby, and wonder just how much of that exchange she overheard. _Probably way too much._

Eventually, the competition draws to a close. All of the squads have danced, all of the judges have deliberated, and now the time has come to find out who will move on to the next round. You and the rest of Team Skull stand with the other squads, anxiously awaiting the announcement. Hala steps out onto the platform in the center of the gymnasium, holding a sheet of paper. He clears his throat and leans into the microphone.

Guzma’s hand finds yours and squeezes.

“Everyone who performed here today gave it their all, and you are all wonderfully talented. Unfortunately, only a select number of you will be moving on to the next round.” A small wave of nervous chattering breaks out across the expectant crowd. Hala holds up his hand to call for silence. “Without further ado, our six quarterfinalists are Null Squad, It’s Super Effective, Full Restore, Psybeam, ONIX-Spected, and Team Skull!”

The crowd and the teams erupt into oddly similar reactions.

The squads not named all huddle together in weepy group hugs, their families in the crowd joining in on their mourning. The six squads that were named explode with celebratory screams and shouts, hugging and crying in equal measure. Guzma whirls on you and in one quick movement, sweeps you off your feet in a bone-crushing hug, hollering wordlessly. You cling to his shoulders, laughing in surprise as he spins around, and when he finally sets you on your feet, your dizziness has nothing to do with the spinning.

Guzma leans down and bumps his forehead against yours, grinning madly. “We fuckin’ did it!” he says, voice low so only you can hear. “Fuck, you’re so fuckin’ awesome.”

You imagine, for a moment, closing those few scant inches between you, and kissing him. The impulse is so strong, you find yourself leaning up on your tiptoes, seeking his lips. His own desires seem to mirror yours; his hand moves upward to your neck, thumb grazing across your jaw. Your eyes flutter closed, you surrender to the moment --

“Yo, am I interruptin’ somethin’?”

Guzma’s head jerks upright, and you leap away from him, face immediately cherry red and hot. Plumeria stands there, staring at the two of you with a cocked eyebrow and a shocked expression on her face. You want to disappear.

“Nah, just celebratin’.” Guzma shrugs one shoulder. You chance a glimpse at him. Despite the fact that the tips of his ears are bright red, a wide and easy grin curves the corners of his mouth.

“Well, the guys wanna go out to celebrate. We were gonna hit up Hoothooters for some drinks. Ya’ll in?”

“Uh, sure! Lemme go tell my mom. Can I invite some friends?” 

Plumeria cocks her head, an unasked question in her eyes. “Yeah, sure. Meet us in the parking lot.” She and the rest of Team Skull head outside. 

Guzma follows after them, carefully avoiding your gaze. For once, you’re grateful that he’s not looking your way. Being caught all mashed against him like that, a mere second from kissing him? Mortifying. You push the event from your mind and scurry up into the bleachers where Hau, Leslie, and your mother are still seated.

“Hi, guys!” you say, grinning from ear to ear. “Mom, the team wants to go out for drinks so I was going to join them.” She nods in understanding and begins gathering her things. You turn to your friends. “Hau, Leslie, do you guys wanna come?”

“Sure!” Hau perks up immediately, grinning.

Leslie wrinkles her nose. “Nah, I’m not big into drinking, but you have fun, okay? You earned it!” 

All four of you head out the double doors, caught in the stream of exiting audience members. Your mother and Leslie wave goodbye and head in one direction, while you and Hau meet up with Team Skull. Guzma is leaning against his car, hands stuffed in his pockets, scowling at nothing in particular. His entire demeanor seems to have changed, and you’re not sure what the cause is.

“Howzit!” Hau greets Team Skull with a wave, grinning. Guzma’s nose wrinkles in distaste.

Frankie folds her arms over her chest. “Who the fuck is this _herb?_ ” The stress she puts on the H makes you snort back a laugh.

“This is Hau, he’s a friend of mine. He’s in Guzma’s class.”

Reese is staring at Hau with a strange, wide-eyed expression on his face. For a brief moment, you wonder if you look that funny when you get all google-eyed at Guzma.

Frankie gives Hau a look that blatantly states she doesn’t think Hau can keep up, but merely blows a bubble of gum and shrugs.

“Who’s drivin’?” Plumeria asks, and immediately, the tip of her index finger flies to the end of her nose.

In a fast whirl, the rest of Team Skull races to mirror her, some of them whacking themselves in the nose in an attempt to reach it first. Hau catches on slightly faster. In the blink of an eye, everyone has their finger on the tip of their finger -- except you.

_Cheaters!_

With a groan, only a _little_ feigned, you smile and start accepting people’s keys.

The rest of the night is a whirl. For the most part, Team Skull are your average, garden-variety disorderly drunken group. At least in your experience, which is far from extensive. They’re a little rowdy and a little inappropriate, but nothing you can’t handle. The worst thing that happened that night is Reese and Hau chasing a poor croagunk through the park, insisting it that licking it would make them “totally wrecked, yo.” It took the promise of buying them each an ice cream for the mission to be abandoned.

Guzma drinks little during the night’s festivities, and you’re grateful for his help in corralling your fistful of drunken toddlers. He’s unusually reserved towards you the whole night, and you try not to think about it too hard. Thinking about it too hard would mean panicking, and you have a responsibility to keep your friends safe. But the tiny voice at the back of your mind keeps repeating those stolen moments just after the announcement.

You had almost kissed him. If Plumeria had not intervened, you’d’ve probably followed through with it. In fact, you’d probably _still_ be there, kissing him. When you think back to that moment, that half a heartbeat where his lips were their closest to yours, the squirmy feeling in your chest rears its ugly head, worse than it’s ever been. It almost steals your breath away. 

Eventually, the limit is reached. Reese actually passes out on the bar, and Hau follows not long after, collapsing on top of his new friend in an exhausted heap. With Guzma’s silent help, you load them and the rest of Team Skull into Guzma’s SUV. It’s a tight squeeze, but all of them manage to fit. Hau, the smallest, is sprawled across all their laps, his head resting across Reese’s thighs. You snap a picture before closing the door. Affording Guzma a grateful little smile, you move around to the driver’s side, but he stops you.

“I can drive.”

“You just had drinks,” you reply, wrinkling your nose. “I saw you take like 5 shots with Plumeria. It’s fine.”

“I can drop you off first so you don’t gotta go through this trouble.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets and studies his shoelaces.

“Guzma, it’s fine. I promised to take care of you guys.” You unlock the car door and place a reassuring hand on his chest before climbing into the driver’s seat. He sighs, and climbs into the passenger seat.

“Alright guys, where are we going first?”

Silence.

“Your mama’s butt.”

_Delightful._

With some guidance from Guzma, you safely drop all of Team Skull at the correct houses. Plumeria is the last to go. As she’s climbing out of the backseat, she stops, leans into Guzma’s ear, and whispers something to him. He shoots her a startled, incredulous look. She claps him on the shoulder, and hobbles up the stairs to her door.

You and Guzma are left alone. When Plumeria is safely inside, you start towards the final destination.

To say that the ride is awkward is an understatement. Guzma seems content to simply stare out his window, not speaking or moving. He doesn’t even bother to turn on the radio this time. You clear your throat and attempt conversation.

“Are we gonna… do the same routine at the quarterfinals?”

“Prolly not.”

“So we have to develop a new one?”

“Yep.”

You give up. If he’s going to be a mysteriously sulky baby, then you have no choice but to let him. When you turn off the car in his driveway, he glances your way, and scratches at his undercut.

“You stayin’ over again?”

Fuck, you hadn’t given it thought. “Oh. Um. I can walk home, if you --”

“Nah, it’s fine. C’mon.” He gets out of the car, and heads up the steps to his trailer. 

Inside, the familiar mob of wimpods scuttles out of hiding, and you watch the daily ritual of Guzma distributing a bag of pokebeans to their hungry mouths. While he takes care of them, you pull out your phone and shoot a quick text to your mother to let her know where you are. She teases you only a little. You toe off your shoes and place them neatly by the door, and sit on the comfortable couch.

Guzma is still avoiding your gaze.

“I’m sorry.”

This gets his attention. He looks up, brows furrowed in confusion. “The fuck you sorry for?”

“I didn’t do the lift. We barely got in ‘cause I fucked up.” You frown. “I’ll do better next time, I promise.”

He studies you, an unreadable expression on his face, and his hands buried in the pockets of his hoodie. A muscle in his jaw jumps. “That’s what you think? That I’m mad about that?”

You falter. “A-Aren’t you?”

“Man, no. I told you that you did a good fuckin’ job and I meant it.” He looks away from you, shrugging out of his hoodie. “I ain’t mad at you, aight?”

“...Okay.”

He hesitates, hand on the door to his bedroom. “...Should I get the air mattress?” There’s an unspoken question in his eyes, and you can guess what it is he’s not asking.

“Yeah. No storm tonight, so I should be good.” You offer a little smile, although you don’t really feel happy at all. “Won’t be crawling in your bed again.”

He pauses for a second, seemingly conflicted, before disappearing into his bedroom.

The air mattress is retrieved and set up, and moments later you find yourself lying in the center of it, beneath a blanket or two. The days’ activities have left you feeling drained and exhausted, but your mind is in overdrive, preventing sleep. You toss and turn, attempting to drive the vision from your minds’ eye, but it just won’t leave. Guzma’s eyes are half-lidded, his thumb is brushing against your jaw, he’s leaning in… 

You finally drift off, dreaming of that almost-kiss.


	9. Chapter 9

“Good, real good. Again.”

Your muscles ache and you’re slick with sweat, but anger and frustration are powerful motivators. You take a long sip from a cold bottle of water, heave an exhausted sigh, and get to your feet.

In the days following Team Skull’s landslide victory in the first round, you and Guzma have been hard at work developing a new routine. And you thought the build up leading into that first elimination was tough. Most nights, you slog up the stairs to your bedroom on legs made of goo, flop face-first into your bed, and pass out while still in your clothes. You don’t think you’ve  _ ever _ worked this hard at something in your life. You still attend the normal classes, and practices afterwards have nearly tripled in length. Plumeria’s leg is mending nicely, but she’s still in no condition to be dancing, and you can tell the enforced down time has made her irritable. More often than not, she throws things to show her dissatisfaction.

Plumeria hurls an empty water bottle at Guzma from her place in the audience chair. “Yo, stop fuckin’ forcin’ it, you cockmouth!”

“Alright, fuck it,  _ fine!” _ snarls Guzma, and he leaps away from you to pace, hands on his hips. “Guess we’re done. It’s gettin’ late anyway.” He mutters in Alolan, seething with irritation.

Ever since that almost-kiss, Guzma’s been doing his best to avoid you. Which is difficult, considering what a necessity you are to developing a whole new routine. His attitude towards you during the actual practices has become much more professional, like you’re just another one of his students. Those lingering touches, those long glances, all gone. Instead, they are replaced with an air of near indifference now. You pretend like it doesn’t bother you. He had said he wasn’t mad about the lift… so what could’ve caused this sudden change? 

You hate how much this uncertainty has you twisted up on the inside.

“Look, I gotta get goin’, I got somewhere to be.” Blowing out a heavy sigh, Guzma pulls on his hoodie and stuffs his hands in his pockets. Hesitating, he scratches at his undercut before looking in your direction. “I could uh… use some help. You wanna come with?” 

Plumeria’s pointed glaring is ignored.

You look up from wiping your sweaty brow with a towel. “...Alright. Where exactly are we going?”

“...My second job.”

Moments later, you and Guzma are in his car, leaving Ryme City for its suburbs. You content yourself with staring out the window for a majority of the trip. Even as much as he’s been trying to avoid you, you still find his company comforting. Turning away from the window, you instead look towards him, and give him a smile. He meets your gaze for a moment, and returns the smile with a crooked smirk of his own. You’re relieved to see that whatever it is that’s bothering him, he can still afford you a smile.

“So what is this second job of yours?” 

“Uh…” He scratches at his stubbled jaw. “It’s… well, it’s a… ghost tour guide.”

You blink. “Ghost tour?”

“Y-Yeah, uh… I basically walk a buncha white kids around some abandoned places in town, tell ‘em some stories about people that might’ve died there, they swear they get voices on their recorders, and pay me 50 bucks a head.” He snorts and shakes his head.

You smile a little. “So… what am I doing?”

“You’re gonna be a  _ plant. _ ”

“What?”

“You gonna pretend to be part of the group and start actin’ like you’re experiencin’ ghost-y shit,” he says, eyes flicking to you. “Really sell the tour, yanno?” He shrugs. “All these people are lookin’ for really is to be spooked.”

“Do you always have someone doing this?”

“Eh, sometimes I’ll get Reese or Frankie to come with me but…” He pauses, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “I wanted to hang out with you.”

“Really?” You arch your brow playfully in his direction. “Well, that’s a surprise. Seeing as how you’ve been trying your best to  _ avoid _ me lately.”

He grimaces. “Yeah, well... I got a bit of advice awhile ago and I was takin’ it too serious. Think I’ve elected to ignore it.”

“What advice was that? Who from?” You squint at him in suspicion. 

“Does it matter? I have  _ elected _ to ignore it.”

You saddle him with your best skeptical look, but he just snorts out a laugh and shakes his head. Well, you can put two and two together; someone had obviously disliked his closeness to you. You’re not sure who exactly would’ve given that kind of advice, but you’re very pleased to know he’s decided to ignore it. You’re loathe to admit it, but you’ve missed his company these past few days.

“Are you the only one who works at this tour place?”

“No, there’s this other girl, Lillie. Smart, nice, kinda shy. Don’t really know much about her except for her pokemon.”

“What is it?”

“Somethin’ weird that I ain’t ever seen before. She calls it Nebby.” He shrugs. “She takes the thing with her everywhere. Keeps it in her bag.”

“Oh.” That is pretty weird. Wouldn’t a pokeball just be easier? “Is there anything in particular you want me to… do? As this plant?”

“Vague shit’s good, like sayin’ you feel sick or cold or even hearing voices.” He grins. “Tourists eat that shit up.” Some realization seems to dawn on him. “Oh, you ain’t afraid of the dark, are ya?”

“I only really have that phobia of thunderstorms…” You consider. “That being said, I’m not… a  _ fan _ of the dark, per se.”

“Eh, it’s fine. Worse thing’s in these places are zubats and zigzagoons. Once there was a gengar in there and I don’t think I ever seen a happier pokemon. It kept making people in the group shiver and shit.” A snort of a chuckle escapes him and he shakes his head.

“I’ll think of something good.”

The conversation lapses into a comfortable silence, and eventually, the car comes to a stop in the parking lot of a strip mall. There’s a pokecenter, it’s warm orange light a beacon in the darkness, as well as a pizza place, a video game resale shop, and a thrift store. There’s only one other vehicle in the parking lot when you two pull in. A large van, painted black, with the words ‘Ryme City Ghost Tours’ painted in large neon yellow letters on the side. A girl around your age, with platinum blonde hair tied back in a sleek ponytail and tucked beneath a black ballcap, is leaning up against it, scrolling on a phone with her thumb. She has a large, dark-blue duffel bag slung across her shoulder.

As the car rolls to a stop, she looks up from her phone, and smiles as she catches sight of Guzma getting out.

“Hey, Mr. Bromley!”

“Lillie,” sighs Guzma, shutting the car door and approaching her van. “How many fuckin’ times do I gotta tell you to call me  _ Guzma. _ This ‘Mr. Bromley’and shit’s gotta end.”

“Oh. Sorry, Mr. Guzma.”

“Better.” With a bemused smirk and a roll of his eyes, he gestures at you. “Introduce yourself, I gotta get my uniform on.” He nudges your elbow playfully with his own, and strides towards the van.

Extending a hand, you introduce yourself to Lillie. Grinning the brightest grin you’ve ever seen, she shakes your hand and repeats your name, ‘to remember it better’. You like her immediately.

“Are you gonna be Mr. Guzma’s fake tourist?” She cocks her head to one side. “Normally it’s one of his dance friends.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s me. Does he do this often?” 

“Only sometimes. How did you two meet?” She digs around inside her duffel for a moment, and produces a plastic bag of red vines. She offers the open bag towards you.

Smiling, you take a vine from the bag and pop the end into your mouth. “I… signed up for his dance class at the rec center. Just on an impulse.” You nibble thoughtfully on your vine. “Then when Plumeria injured her ankle, I… uh…” You grimace. “I volunteered to take her place.”

Lillie’s eyes are sparkling and wide as she regards you, and the smile on her face is positively  _ enamored. _ “Oh em  _ gee _ , that’s about the cutest thing I’ve ever heard!” With the eagerness of a giddy rockruff, she grabs your arm and bounces a little on the spot. “So you’ve been dancing with him?”

Her enthusiasm is infectious and you find yourself grinning. “Yeah, we just got through the first elimination round a couple of days ago. By the skin of our teeth, I think…” You wrinkle your nose. “I didn’t do one of the lifts, I feel awful about it.”

“Oh shush, I bet you did wonderfully!” She pulls her phone from her pocket, and starts tapping on the screen. “I want your number so you can tell me when the next round is, I want to watch.”

“Watch what?” Guzma returns, stepping around the van. He’s replaced his usual short-sleeved Team Skull hoodie with a dark blue windbreaker, the words ‘Ryme City Ghost Tours’ stitched neatly on the back. The knit beanie he wears has been replaced with a ballcap, identical to Lillie’s, that also bears the name of the tour group. Tucked under his arm is a small box of what looks to be informational pamphlets. But that’s not what immediately draws your attention.

“Oh my god, what is that.” You point to his waist.

Guzma’s cheeks turn a delicate shade of pink. “What? It’s a fanny pack, aight? Shut up, it’s useful!” He unzips the largest pouch and reveals supplies for the night’s activities -- spare batteries for flashlights or voice recorders, a few granola bars, index cards full of notes on the places they’re visiting, and his cell phone.

In a vain attempt to hold back your laughter, you bite your down on your lower lip, and instead compose your face into an expression of benign interest. It’s marred only a little by your snorting, half-stifled laughter. Lillie’s grinning shamelessly. Guzma’s expression is somewhere between annoyed and ‘yeah I deserve this.’

“I was just asking about Team Skull’s next performance. I want to watch it!” Lillie says around bites of red vine. 

Guzma raises and drops one shoulder in a nonchalant shrug. “Yeah, sure. Didn’t really take you for a fan of that kinda shit, Lillie.”

“I’m not, really, but I always support friends.” She grins at you, reaches into her duffel, and slaps a ballcap that matches hers and Guzma’s onto your head.

You’re about ready to  _ die _ for Lillie at this point.

“Aight, heads up, looks like we got our first group.” Guzma jerks his chin in the direction of the parking lot’s entrance. You watch as a minivan drives up, and when it parks, a group of teenagers exit, excitedly chattering as they approach. They’re all wearing matching sweatshirts, each embroidered with the words ‘Gastly Investigations’. You don’t see an actual gastly with them, but there is a litwick, held in the hands of the youngest member -- a boy no older than 13. He grins up at you from beneath an overly-large, fluffy winter hat.

While Guzma is passing out pamphlets to the group of five teenagers, two more cars roll up. One carries only a single person, an older gentleman with salt and pepper hair and kind eyes, and his pokemon, a duskull that floats near his shoulder, chattering ominously. Another car carries two rough looking punks decked in spikes and leather, both around your age -- and a mimikyu. One carries the pokemon in a pouched hoodie beneath his leather jacket. It peeks out the head of its pikachu disguise every now and then.

Once all the pamphlets are all distributed and the proper payments are received, Guzma begins going through the ground rules of the tour.

“Flash photography  _ is _ permitted, go fuckin’ nuts with it, I don’t give a shit. No food allowed during the tours, unless you’re me.” He flashes his most charming smile, and the crowd titters. “Keep an eye on your pokemon and your shit, Ryme City Ghost Tours is not responsible in the event of lost pokemon or items, yadda-yadda, we all good?”

The crowd nods its assent, and the tour begins. All of the tourists, you included, are ushered onto the bus, which you now see has been converted into a makeshift shuttle. Lillie slides in behind the wheel, and moments later the little shuttle is trundling merrily down the street towards the first destination. You watch the orange of the street lights flicker past the window.

The first place the tour takes you is an abandoned pokeball factory. The teenagers get off first, excitedly chattering as they approach. Several of them pull out tiny silver voice recorders. One pulls out an old polaroid camera, and another retrieves a small digital camera from inside their bag. The boy with the litwick simply holds his pokemon aloft, casting an eerie blue light in the decrepit interior of the building.

Lillie stays behind with the van. As you’re exiting, her duffel makes a strange sound -- a soft, melodical chirping. She nudges it with the toe of her foot and shushes it. You afford her a passing suspicious squint, before disembarking and following the rest of the tour group.

“So, this pokeball factory has always had some fucked up stuff goin’ on,” begins Guzma, following after the group into the main hall. His voice drops into a spooky, deep murmur. “When the factory first opened, a man named Hugo Dryden was tryin’ to clean the machinery, and the rag he was usin’ to clean got caught in the teeth of the machine. Because of the noise, no one heard him screamin’ in pain until he was half-eaten, head-first.”

There’s a collective murmur of tension from the group, and the investigators immediately begin rolling on their recorders and cameras. You have to hand it to Guzma -- he really does know how to sell the story. He watches with a bemused expression as the self-proclaimed investigator group dawdles with recorders and cameras rolling.

He catches your eye and winks. You suddenly remember you have a job to do. As you join the investigator group in their meandering around the hall, you try to recall any information you absorbed through your many viewings of Ghost Adventures and Dog Detective: Ghost Hunter Edition. What are some of the things  _ they _ talk about experiencing?

“I feel a blast of cold air right here,” says one of the amateur investigators, and she holds out her hand to a space about five feet off the ground in front of her.

“Oh, I’m feeling like… an energy burst go through me right now.” Hugging yourself, you rub your arms up and down as if you’re experiencing a chill. “Goosebumps like crazy.”

“Me too!” interjects another investigator.

You catch a glimpse of Guzma’s face, and he’s grinning to himself at your theatrics. That’s a sign to continue. It feels good to be causing mischief with him like this. To be his cohort. Being his partner in crime both soothes and agitates that squirmy feeling in your chest. You wish you had a name for it.

“Did you hear that?” you say, in a dramatic whisper. “I heard someone speaking. Sounded like… distant yelling.”

Judging from their own little smiles, the punks with the mimikyu and the older man with his duskull are amused by your antics. It only spurs you on, stirring up the amateur investigators. You spend the rest of the tour’s time in the pokeball factory coming up with phony feelings, swearing up and down that you hear voices, and at one point, you pretend to have felt someone tapping on your shoulder.

Guzma eventually calls for everyone to wrap things up, and the tour group is herded back onto the shuttle. When it starts its path to the next location, Guzma sits beside you.

“Nice job. They’re eatin’ it up,” he says, in a quiet voice that only you can hear. Not that it matters. The teenage investigators are chatting animatedly about their findings, barely paying anyone else mind. You smirk to yourself.

“I expect a cut from the profits for all my hard work.” 

Guzma snorts out a laugh, grinning wide and crooked and oh, so charming. He side eyes you, an idea visibly forming. “How about a kiss instead?” These words he leans in close to speak, lips nearly brushing your ear. The timbre of his voice sends goosebumps chasing down your arms, and you’re left momentarily stunned.

You blink up at him, meeting his gaze. Despite the fact that you’re more comfortable around him, his proximity has your heart racing. But you can’t let  _ him _ know that. A knowing smirk curls your lip. 

“Alright… deal?” You offer your open hand, silently challenging him with your eyes.

His eyebrows shoot upward in surprise, but his charming, crooked smile remains. He grasps your hand firmly. “Deal.”

The rest of the ride, you try not to let your true emotions show on your face. You still have three more haunted buildings to visit, and three more performances to give. To let him see your excitement would ruin the game. As the shuttle continues on towards the next destination, you begin to really feel the chill in the air. You wish you’d brought a heavier jacket instead of this light hoodie. You shiver a little. 

“Cold?” Guzma eyes you.

“A little. My mistake for only bringing this light hoodie.” You smile ruefully.

“Here.” 

He retrieves his duffel bag from the passenger seat, rummages around inside, and pulls out his own hoodie. He turns and drapes it around your shoulders. It’s a baggy piece of clothing on Guzma, and you’re even smaller than he is, so it practically drowns you, but it’s warm. Smiling a little, you push your arms through the sleeves and zip it up. It smells good; musky and slightly smokey, like him. The thought has your whole face turning pink.

“Thank you.”

“No worries.”

The shuttle comes to a stop outside an elegant building surrounded by an immaculate lawn, with perfectly appointed flowerbeds and well-kept hedgerows. There’s a cozy glow emanating from the windows; it seems to call to you, a beacon of warmth and comfort in the bleak autumn weather. The house is painted a deep, dusky purple color, with a white trim. There’s a plaque next to the cheery white door that reads ‘Shady House Bed and Breakfast.’ Guzma takes the stairs two at a time to arrive at the door before the rest of the group, holding open the door as everyone files past.

He gives you a little wink as you pass by.

“Aight, if ya’ll can’t read, this is the Shady House Bed and Breakfast, and it was converted to a B&B in the 90’s. But when it was built, it was the home of Lord and Lady Norwington.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets as he talks, almost seeming bored. “They experienced lots of tragedy in their lives. First, Lady Norwington suffered a miscarriage, and then three babies died only a few months after they was born.” 

As he explains the history behind the building, you’re looking around. It’s furnished opulently, with golden accents sprinkled liberally throughout. The entrance hallway has a grandfather clock that ticks quietly, and a long runner carpet over the wood floors. There are wide, tall archways that lead to a dining room and a sitting room, and a pair of carpeted stairs that lead up. Everything is lit with warm, inviting light that emanates from period-accurate oil lamps.

“Then, in his grief, Lord Norwington put a pistol in his mouth.” He smirks as a soft murmuring of sorrow whispers through the group. “Tormented with grief and anguish, Lady Norwington hanged herself in the attic.”

An plump, elderly woman approaches, offering the group a kindly smile. “That’s absolutely right. Then after the Norwingtons died, the property lay abandoned for some time, until the early 1900s when it came under new ownership.”

“Right, some old suffragette named Louisette Morgan bought it from the local government and turned it into a pokemon-friendly boarding house.” Guzma continues on. “But the tragedies didn’t stop with the death of the Norwingtons.”

“Well, my name is Ethel Masters and I am the current owner of the Shady House. I bought it in 1994 from the great-great granddaughter of Louisette Morgan, who was absolutely desperate to be rid of the property.” Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “She had suffered a long string of tragedies herself after acquiring the property from the Norwingtons.”

As Guzma and Mrs. Masters continue on, your attention to them dwindles. There’s a lot of exposition and you’re steadily growing bored. Your gaze sweeps across the little hallway, only half paying attention, until they spot something odd on the middle landing of the stairs. You squint at the oddly blurry blob of color, trying to make it out and then --

“A pair of shoes!!” squeaks the litwick boy, pointing. “Oh my God, I just saw a pair of shoes on the landing! Just the feet with no legs or body or nothin’!”

Startled, you meet Guzma’s gaze across the heads of the group, and he looks as utterly perplexed as you. The group bunches together in fear and worry as the others start talking quietly amongst themselves. Somehow in the madness, your hand finds Guzma’s, and he accepts it readily. It’s a calming, soothing warmth that envelops your palm, and you find yourself breathing a little easier.

Ethel Masters is smiling, a knowing little twinkle to her crinkled green eyes. “Yes, there are quite a few different manifestations within the house itself. We’ve had patrons say they’ve been touched in certain rooms, they’ve heard disembodied voices or crying…” She trails off and looks towards the landing. “Those shoes are the most common manifestation we see here.”

As the group follows eagerly after Ethel up the stairs to tour the rest of the rooms, you and Guzma hang back, hand in hand. With a sigh, he drops your hand in favor of slinging an arm around your shoulders instead. Instinctively, your own arm slips around his waist, and the squirmy monster in your chest purrs with delight. Familiarity between the two of you is getting easier.

“Well, shit,” he says, scratching at his undercut. “This place is new on the itinerary. Literally never fuckin’ been here.” He shoots you a teasing smirk. “Guess you won’t have to put on much of a performance for this one.”

“I’m still getting paid, right?” 

“Eh, we’ll see how good you do in the next place.” He flashes you another charming, crooked grin, and the pair of you head upstairs to rejoin the rest of the group.

Ethel has them all gathered in one of the unoccupied rooms of the bed and breakfast, explaining how this room was where they had originally found Lord Norwington’s body. The amateur investigator team is excitedly snapping photos while she talks, and the litwick boy is holding tight to his pokemon while his eyes nervously flick from corner to corner. Your own anxiety seems to mirror his, and you shuffle a little closer to Guzma for comfort. This room, although well-lit and warmly appointed in its furnishings, makes you feel chilled. You frown.

“I don’t like this place, Guzma.” 

“Yeah, me neither. Gives me the fuckin’ creeps,” he mutters, brows drawn in a discomfited scowl. “How the fuck can people  _ sleep _ here?”

“Well…” A little playful smirk curves your lip. “Maybe people don’t do much sleeping.” You wiggle your eyebrows and grin.

“Wh-Whoa, what the fuck are you --” His brows jump up as his gaze snaps to you. “You’d wanna fuck in a haunted-ass buildin’?”

“You wouldn’t?” At this point, you’re only teasing him; it’s cute to see him get so flustered.

“Abso-fuckin’-lutely not.” Another toothy, cockeyed grin graces his features. “ _ Auwē!  _ You’re kinda freaky, ain’t ya?”

You open your mouth to respond, to offer some sort of witty retort that might make him blush, but at that precise moment, a startled cry arises from the group inside the room. The mimikyu that belongs to the punk couple has scuttled from its owner’s pocket and seems to be chasing the boy’s litwick around the room. The duskull fills the air with angry rattling noises, and the lights of the room begin to flicker. With tensions running high, the little scuffle only frightens the group more. The amateur investigators all huddle close together, protecting the litwick from the mimikyu.

“Chauncey, get down from there,” admonishes the duskull’s owner, pleadingly reaching for his pokemon which has now started floating near the rafters. The eerie rattling has progressed to a haunting moan, and the boy with the litwick now looks to be fighting tears.

Guzma heaves a heavy sigh. “Better go take care of this before it gets outta hand.” 

Grumbling under his breath, he steps away from your side, and with a startling swiftness, manages to settle down the situation. The mimikyu is replaced in the pocket of its owners, and the duskull floats down to perch on its owner’s shoulder. With normality restored, Guzma allows the group a few more minutes of ‘investigating’, before ushering everyone back onto the shuttle for one last stop.

“Where to next?” You ask, dropping into the shuttle seat next to him.

“Eh, it’s kinda dumb,” he says, scratching at his undercut. “But there’s an abandoned megamart and pokecenter on the outskirts of town.” He shrugs. “We usually wrap it up there.”

“That doesn’t sound dumb at all. After that last place, it sounds downright homey.” 

A positively  _ brazen _ idea strikes your mind. Before your courage leaves you, you lift his arm and place it around your shoulders, just behind your neck. With all the confidence of a skitty that knows it belongs there, your lean your head against his shoulder and breath out a contented sigh. Your chest squirms, but it’s a pleasant feeling now. Guzma’s arm stays in place. It takes a considerable amount of effort on your part not to glance up at him, to gauge his reaction. You close your eyes to avoid the temptation.

You can feel his eyes on you. You pretend like you don’t.

Eventually, the shuttle pulls into a cracked and weed-riddled parking lot that surrounds a small supermarket that’s long since been abandoned. The words “Thrifty Megamart” are emblazoned in flickering block letters above the door. The large windows that make up the majority of the storefront are darkened, but you can still make out shapes within. Something inside moves, you think, and you instinctively back up a step -- before realizing it’s merely the distorted reflection of the group in the windows that’s tricking your mind.  _ You’re freaking yourself out, chill. _

Guzma leaves the shuttle last, hands in his pockets. He pulls from his fanny pack a granola bar and begins unwrapping it while explaining the building’s history.

“The Megamart went outta business a few years ago. Customers and employees alike reported strange shit when it was active, from hearing voices to seein’ ghostly apparitions.” He takes a bite of granola bar, chewing thoughtfully. “Supposedly, a little boy can be seen lurking around what used to be the candy section.” The mouthful of granola muffles his words only a little.

“I heard an old lady froze to death,” quips the litwick boy. “People say you can hear her begging for help in the frozen food aisle.”

Guzma catches your eye as the group shuffles towards the storefront. You’re the last of the group to enter, and he falls in step easily beside you.

“So, this place isn’t haunted at all, is it?” You keep your voice low so that the rest of the group can’t hear you.

“Nah, used to work here when it was open. Nothin’ nefarious, just got run outta business by the Wal-Mart.” He shrugs. “Some wild pokemon sneak in every once in awhile for shelter, but that’s about it.” He gives a little snort. “This place ain’t no more haunted than my trailer.”

“So I have to give another award-winning performance?”

“Yeah, if you want that payment.” He shoots you a glance from the corner of his eye. “You…  _ do _ still want it, right?”

Just to see him squirm a little, you make a show of considering, tapping your finger on your chin. “Hm, I don’t know… maybe I need the deal to be sweetened a little.” Batting your lashes coquettishly, you offer him an all-too-innocent smile.

“U-Uh…” Eyebrows disappearing beneath his bangs, he stares at you with wide, confused eyes. “What did you have in mind?”

“I’ll have to think about it.” You give him a wink, all too pleased with how you’ve flustered him.

He grins, scratching at his undercut. You step away and rejoin the rest of the group, meandering amongst the aisles. The older man is murmuring soothing words to his duskull, which still seems to be ruffled by the earlier scuffle. It rattles ominously from its perch on his shoulder, really adding to the unsettling atmosphere. As you pass by empty shelf after empty shelf, your uneasiness mounts. It’s as if there’s something watching you. 

You do your best to invent evidence while the group is meandering, but the ever-prevalent feeling of being watched make it difficult. A few times, the evidence isn’t as fabricated as before. You swear you hear a quiet voice whispering your name, right next to your ear. Guzma seems discomfited as well. In the end, you’re relieved to leave this place behind. You never do discover the source of the whispers or the omnipresent feeling of being watched, but you’re not really disappointed.

The shuttle is loaded one last time. By this point, everyone is tired, and the atmosphere inside is much quieter. One of the amateur investigators is talking in hushed tones with the punk couple, but everyone else is silent. The litwick boy is leaning heavily against the wall of the shuttle, eyes closed, and his litwick flickers sleepily in his arms. You feel the heavily deadening of your limbs as well, and your eyelids are drooping. With a sigh, you lean your head against Guzma’s shoulder.

“Did you…” He clears his throat. “Did you wanna come by my place afterwards?”

You tilt your chin upwards a little, studying what little of his face you can see. “I don’t know, it’s kinda late and I’m… really tired.”

“Y-Yeah, I just thought you could uh… stay over?” 

You’re not sure why, but there’s an implication there that sets off that squirmy chest feeling. You can’t see much of his face, but there’s a distinctive pink to his cheeks now. Something about this whole situation has you feeling inexplicably… nervous. All he’s done is ask if you want to stay over -- perfectly innocent, right? It’s not the first time you’ve slept over. So why does this time send anxiety sparking in your veins?

“Um. Rain check, okay? Think I wanna sleep in my own bed and not on an air mattress.” 

“O-Oh… yeah…” He forces a laugh, and scratches at his undercut. “I mean, I wasn’t gonna make ya sleep on that thing, if… if you didn’t want to.” His entire face is red now. He clears his throat and suddenly finds the frayed bits of his jeans very interesting. “But it’s fine, yanno, it’s cool, I get it.”

The crestfallen expression on his face is too much to bear, and your heart lurches. Gently, you slip your hand around his bicep and give it an apologetic squeeze. When he looks your way and that same crooked, roughly charming smirk tugs at his lips, you can’t help but return it. You lean your cheek against his shoulder, and the rest of the ride is spent in silence. It takes considerable effort to calm the squirmy feeling in your chest. Only when the shuttle comes to a stop does it finally abate.

“Alright,” Guzma calls, as the sleepy tour group disembarks from the shuttle. “Thank you all for joining Ryme City Ghost Tours tonight. Please see the blonde girl for a complimentary pin, and be sure to like us on Facebook and Twitter. Also please consider givin’ us a review on Yelp -- return with printed proof for a discount on your next tour!”

Lillie stands beside the shuttle, holding a wicker basket full of plastic pins. They all bear a haunter swooping artistically around the words ‘Ryme City Ghost Tours’. The group all file past her, taking a pin from the basket and heading off to their vehicles. The punk couple purchase a ballcap similar to the one you’re wearing, and the litwick boy buys a magnet to go with his pin. When they’ve all dispersed, Guzma pulls off his own cap with a sigh, and tosses it into the open shuttle.

“Well, that went pretty fuckin’ good, if I do say so myself.”

“What the hell was up with that bed and breakfast though?”

Lillie tucks the basket of pins in one of the seats of the shuttle. “Oh, Shady House? What happened?”

“Someone’s pokemon got spooked by somethin’.” Guzma shrugs, and yanks the windbreaker up and off his head. “No biggie.” He tosses the windbreaker into the shuttle as well, and stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans. 

You resist ogling his tattooed arms. “Uhhh, you’re not even gonna mention the weird energy in that place?” You shiver at the thought of it. “Like something absolutely  _ did not _ want us in there.”

“Oooh, sounds spooky,” says Lillie, and she folds her arms over her chest. “That place is new on the itinerary.”

“Might have to skip it if people bring pokemon on the tour. Just to avoid trouble.” Guzma sighs and scratches at his undercut. “Welp, I gotta take them home, Lillie, so I’ll see ya next week.” He reaches over and pokes the end of her nose with his index finger.

“See ya, Mr. Brom---” She cuts herself off, flushing. “Mr. Guzma.” She grins.

As Guzma heads off towards his SUV, you give Lillie a goodbye wave. As she returns it, the duffel bag still within the shuttle begins shifting and emitting a strange, musical cry. Your footsteps falter, you blink in surprise, and she whirls on her heel to slam the shuttle door closed. She faces you once more, a grin plastered to her face, and waves cheerily.

_ Odd. _

Guzma’s jeep is warm by the time you arrive, and it’s a welcome reprieve from the nightly chill. You find yourself slipping in out of consciousness during the drive, your eyes sliding shut every couple of minutes. The radio plays a continuous stream of soft ballads, lulling you even more into a drowsy state. Guzma is unusually quiet the entire drive, and you’re not sure if he’s hurt about the ‘rain check’ or if he’s just tired.

When he pulls into the driveway of your mother’s house, you suddenly remember.

“Hey, what about my payment? I did some quality work back there.” You give him your best professional staredown.

He grins that same crooked grin. “Oh, you did, you put on quite the show.” 

The smile slowly fades as his expression shifts, replaced with an intensity that has your heart fluttering madly in your chest. The backs of his fingers brush alongside your jaw, and for a heartbeat, his eyes flick down to your lips.  _ Oh, God, this is really happening. _ You swallow a hard lump that’s formed quite suddenly in your throat. When his gaze returns to yours, he’s leaning in, you can barely even breathe, his eyelids slip half-closed, his lips part --

He turns his head and presses a chaste peck to your cheekbone. It’s the barest hint of contact, but it sends electricity sparking through you regardless. Like a static shock. 

“G’night,” he says, in the quietest of voices. His breath is a warm caress across your skin. 

When he pulls away, your limbs feel dead, your system suddenly exhausted as adrenaline leaves you. It takes a considerable moment for you to recollect your scattered thoughts. Stammering out your own good night, you fumble for the handle of the door, and clamber gracelessly from Guzma’s car. The smile on his lips has only the slightest hint of arrogance to it as he waves, and backs down the driveway.

You’re not sure how long you stand there, in the chill of the late autumn night. Eventually, you return to your senses, and scurry inside. It’s only when you’re upstairs getting ready for bed that you realize you’ve accidentally stolen Guzma’s hoodie. It still smells like him, and it’s very warm and soft. It’s a well-loved piece of clothing, you can tell, and he’ll likely want it back…

Tomorrow.

For now, you strip down to your undies, don the borrowed hoodie, and burrow beneath your blankets. In the darkness of your room, you breathe deeply the comforting scent of him, and drift off into a deep sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

The next few weeks seem to fly by. You and Team Skull work tirelessly on the new routine. Much to your chagrin, Guzma has worked in your embarrassing little panic dance from the first elimination round. Lovingly dubbed “the grookey” by everyone in the team, the move is incorporated into the beginning half of the routine, before you and Guzma move into your solo parts. This new duet with Guzma is more complicated than the previous iteration of it, and it’s really putting you through your paces. 

But you’re not the uncoordinated mess you once were.

Where once you would’ve failed catastrophically, you only stumble once or twice, before immediately picking up the new motions. It all seems to come more naturally to you now, and you’re grateful. Guzma seems to be pleased with your improvement. Sometimes, you catch him staring at you while you’re working on the routine on your own. These long, lingering stares from across the stage punctuate the frequent practices, and you pretend like you don’t notice them.

The squirmy feeling has only worsened.

It’s been weeks, and Guzma has yet to realize you still have his hoodie. Truth be told, you’re in no real hurry to return it. You feel like a real creeper, but it still smells so much like him and it’s a great comfort to you on especially stormy nights. When the thunder really gets to you, you wrap yourself in the soft black material and burrow beneath your blankets, and find sleep much more successfully. Some small part of you feels guilty, especially with the weather getting progressively colder. You’ll give it back, someday, but there’s no shame in keeping it a little longer.

Guzma seems content to ignore whatever advice he’d been given, and you’re glad; he spends more and more time with you now, and you secretly enjoy his company above almost all others. Before, the two of you only really spent time together to practice on the routine. Now, you get together for midnight snack runs, movies, or just hanging out, usually with weed and Game Grumps. More than once your mother has come across the two of you asleep in the basement, leaning against one another. She drapes a blanket across your sleeping forms, and leaves you.

Neither of you mention the night of the ghost tour, where you’d gotten the payment you’d asked for, but you think about it a lot. You begin to really question your role in Guzma’s life and he in yours…

What are the two of you, really?

It’s a question you find yourself pondering more and more, right up until the day of the quarterfinals. The setting of this round is different than the first -- whereas the first eliminations had been held at a community college, this building seems to be a step up in terms of quality. A more upscale theater, usually for musicians or live shows, in the limits of Ryme City. Upon arriving and following the rest of the Team Skull into the building, a sudden fact dawns upon you.

“W-Wait…” You come to a halt, staring at the large stage with the hundreds of half-empty seats surrounding it. You recognize familiar faces of rival teams in the crowd, settling into their seats. “You guys didn’t tell me they were gonna be _watching_ this time around!” Your voice comes out in a hiss and you swat at Guzma’s arm.

“They was watchin’ last time!” he replies, wrinkling his nose. 

“Noooo, no, no, there was too much happening to be the center of attention last time!” you moan, dragging your palms down your face.

Plumeria snorts out a laugh, and punches you playfully in the arm. “Shit, you worry too much. I’ll go get us registered.” With a reassuring wink, she turns and disappears into the crowd. Somehow, you don’t feel so reassured.

Guzma gestures to the row of empty seats. With anxiety gnawing at the pit of your stomach, you sidle down the aisle and plop heavily into a seat. With Guzma in the lead, the motley crew side-steps its way towards the center of the row and sits. Guzma leans down close to your ear.

“Hey,” he says, dropping his voice into a low whisper. The lights slowly dim until the whole room is bathed in darkness. “It’ll be aight. We got this.”

“Guzma, I don’t do so great in front of crowds!” you hiss. “I’m gonna fuck this up for you guys.”

With a sigh that’s half frustrated growl, he straightens, and as the first group takes the stage, his hand finds yours in the darkness. As his fingers interlace with yours, that familiar squirmy feeling in your chest returns. You want desperately to look at him, to see his face, but it’s too dark in the theater to clearly make out his expression.

His hand is warm and comforting, though. 

The first squad, ONIX-Spected, finishes up their routine, and the crowd bursts into applause. Guzma’s hand never leaves yours, and when his thumb strokes slow and soft across your knuckles, you forget how to breath.

“Next up, Psybeam! It’s Super Effective, you’re on deck!” calls the announcer over the PA system. 

Plumeria returns moments later, and scuttles past the grunts. There’s some awkward shuffling as she takes a seat next to Guzma. You start to pull your hand away, expecting him to mirror the movement, but he catches your fingers between his and holds your hand firm.

“G, we got a problem. I saw --”

“Plumes, c’mon. We got this, okay? Ain’t nothin’ gonna fuck us up this time.” He gives her a beseeching look, brows knit. “Just relax.”

Plumeria’s hawk-like eyes flick down to his hand intwined with yours, and narrow just a fraction, but she says nothing. Instead she just blows out a sigh, and settles back in her seat.

The next teams’ performances are a blur. Each time the PA system comes on, your stomach clenches in anxiety. 

“Next up, Null Squad! Team Skull, you’re on deck!” 

Your pulse spikes as the others all get to their feet, and the chain of people all shuffle from the aisle. Hand still tightly clasped in Guzma’s, you follow your team out the auditorium, where an event organizer gestures towards the backstage entrance. You hear the cacophonous roar of the crowd as Null Squad takes the stage and begins their routine. Although you can’t see it, you know it’s probably impressive. The others all separate to stretch and get themselves prepared for the performance, but you hover uncertainly near the exit. The urge to run has never been stronger. The prospect of being the center of attention has you more nervous than the first time you did this, and now you’re not sure if you can handle it.

“Hey.” Guzma materializes out of thin air in front of you. His hands move to grip your upper arms, gentle but firm. “Relax.”

“You keep telling me that, but I don’t feel relaxed. I feel like running away and puking.”

A quiet chuckle escapes him and he shakes his head. “You’re worryin’ over nothin’.” A charming grin spreads across his features. “If anyone so much as _thinks_ about booin’, I’ll knock their fuckin’ teeth in.”

The sincere intensity to his sudden scowl has you laughing despite your jitters. He takes your hand and gives it a squeeze, and your frayed nerves are soothed just a little. Even as your worries about the performance abate, a tiny voice at the back of your mind revitalizes a old worry: _what are the two of you, really?_

Before you can dwell on this question that’s been plaguing you, the PA system comes over the loudspeakers. Nearly drowned out by the roar of the crowd outside, the announcer calls out the words you’ve been dreading since stepping foot inside the theater.

“Team Skull, you’re up!”

Your legs can’t seem to move. Guzma gives you a nudge, and you’re suddenly stumbling towards the stage. Heart in your throat, your mind numb, you step out from behind the curtain --

A deafening clamor of cheers and a blinding barrage of lights greet you. Forcing a smile, your awkward salute-like gesture to protect your eyes transforms quickly into an enthusiastic wave. The crowd is nothing short of thunderous. In the brief seconds before the performance begins, you catch a glimpse of familiar faces seated in the theater. Hau, Lillie, and your mother are all seated together, holding a large sign bearing your name and the Team Skull logo. Equal parts embarrassment and euphoria course through you.

You also spy Null Squad retaking their seats, grinning triumphantly and mopping their sweaty brows. Gladion meets your gaze, a mean sort of sneer curving his lip, and the performance begins.

Like before, your muscle memory takes ahold of you quickly. This new routine has been drilled so deeply into your body and mind that it’s nearly second nature. And like before, the crowd all but disappears until it’s just you and him. The whole of the world falls away, and you allow yourself to become lost in the intensity of Guzma’s gaze, in the firm reassuring grip of his hands. For all intents and purposes, the two of you are all but alone on the stage. You even manage to nail a lift, and stumble only a moment or two. It all goes by so fast, it’s as if you were only dancing for mere seconds, but the fast beat of your heart, the gasps of air drawn into your lungs, and the faint sheen of sweat tells a different story.

The music stops. All of Team Skull freezes, save for the simultaneous gasping of breath, and there’s a moment of silence. It stretches on for minutes, hours, _days._ And the spell is broken.

Thunderous applause fills the theater. Several people stand as they applaud, and several more shout and whistle and stamp their feet. A thrill of unbridled glee steals through you to see Gladion scowling. Your mother, Hau and Lillie are shaking the sign they made for you and yelling louder than anyone. The cheers reach a dizzying volume as you and the rest of Team Skull take your bows and exit. It takes a few minutes for the noise to die to a dull roar.

There’s a brief intermission while the judges tally up their scores. The crowd is given free reign of the theater for restroom breaks, and the teams reconvene backstage. 

Guzma’s face is stuck in that crooked smile. He exchanges celebratory gestures with Plumeria and Reese and Frankie, ranging from one-armed hugs to simple high fives, before turning to you. His euphoric grin is nothing short of infectious, and you find yourself mirroring it. Together in a little clump, you and Team Skull sit backstage, quietly conversing amongst yourselves. Guzma keeps shooting you these… unreadably intense gazes. You pretend not to notice, but that squirmy creature in your chest writhes with pleasure every time.

The wait for the results is torturously long. 

After an eternity of pacing and nervous conversation and silent prayer, the teams are called to the stage once more, before the anxiously waiting crowd. Hala steps out to the microphone at the forefront of the stage.

“You’ve all been very patient with us. As before, we want to thank all of the teams who performed for us today. But alas, only five of the six of you can continue on to the semifinals.”

Beside you, Guzma takes your shaking hand in his and squeezes it. A soothing warmth washes over you.

“This was not an easy decision. The five that will be continuing on to the semifinals are…”

You can’t seem to breathe.

“ONIX-Spected, It’s Super Effective, Psybeam, Null Squad, and Team Skull!”

Time restarts. With a surprised shriek, you whirl and throw your arms around Guzma in an exultant embrace. He gives a wordless holler of glee and spins in a circle, lifting you off the ground. This time, you’re prepared for it. You echo his shout, clinging to his shoulders as you spin. Your feet find the ground once more, but still you cling to the neck of his hoodie. His arms tighten around your waist, drawing you closer until his forehead presses against yours. Grinning like a fool and your head still spinning, you lean upwards, allowing yourself to be pulled into his embrace.

“Fuck, you’re so fuckin’ amazin’.”

“You said that the last time,” you manage to reply. Your thoughts are a little scattered at the moment. 

“A guy can repeat himself when it’s important…” His half-lidded eyes meet yours, and he squeezes your waist. “Let’s get outta here. We gotta celebrate, right?”

You swallow hard, but manage a little smile. “...Right.”

His hand finds yours, and the pair of you dive into the sea of moving people. Your heart is pounding painfully fast in your chest. What exactly ‘celebrating’ entails tonight, you’re not really sure, but your imagination is already running wild. The intensity to his voice and eyes -- you didn’t just imagine that. Right?

You follow faithfully after him as he threads through the crowd, hand firmly encircling yours. Eventually, he pulls you closer, and opts for slinging his arm around your shoulders. Your own arm winds automatically around his waist. 

“So, where are we going?” you ask, glancing up at him.

“I was thinkin’ you and me could get some drinks and --” Suddenly, his smile fades so quickly, it’s as if it never existed in the first place. The goofy, exuberant expression on his face has been erased, replaced with a cold, hard glare of hatred.

Before you stands an unfamiliar older couple. The woman has short white hair that frames her kindly brown face, and she’s wearing a lovely floral-patterned dress -- reminiscent of some of the patterns you saw in Hau’s home. The man beside her, presumably her husband, is fairer, with salt-and-pepper hair cropped short and a pink polo tucked into a pair of khakis. Your gaze flicks between these strangers and Guzma. He seems to recognize them.

“The fuck you doin’ here?” he snarls and his arm slips from your shoulders. His vitriolic glare seems directed almost entirely at the older man, and his fingers curl into tight, white-knuckled fists at his side.

“We came to see you perform, sweetheart,” says the woman, and she steps forward to cup his face between her hands and plant kiss after kiss and on his cheek and forehead. “You did such a good job!”

Suddenly it dawns on you -- _they’re Guzma’s parents._

“Yeah, thanks, Ma,” he says under his breath, embarrassed, and his expression softens a little as she hugs him. It makes you smile, seeing big bad Guzma being doted on by his mother.

His father, however, seems less impressed. With a scoff, his nose wrinkles in distaste, and a muscle in his jaw jumps. When he speaks, the tone of his voice is cold and cruel and it breaks your heart.

“It certainly was _something_ .” He shakes his head and folds his arms over his chest. “Good to know all that money I spent on your education went to _waste._ ” He shakes his head. “Just had to _dance,_ didn’t you, boy?”

Guzma’s softened expression immediately hardens and his brows furrow into a deep scowl. The unadulterated hatred in his eyes as he regards his father has your blood turning to ice. You’re beginning to worry this will come to blows, and you certainly don’t want a scene. People are starting to stare at this little display.

“Philip,” admonishes Guzma’s mother, frowning at her husband. “It was amazing, Guzma.” 

“Don’t _lie_ to the boy, Lani,” snaps Philip. “You always coddled him. He shouldn’t be wasting his time with this nonsense.”

“ _Philip.”_

“Hey, fuck you, aight?” Guzma steps out from behind his mother and draws himself up to his not-unimpressive full height. He practically _towers_ over his father. “If you had shit your way, I’d be some fat fuck, wastin’ away inside some shitty cubicle.” A mean snarl of a smile steals across his lips. “Like you.”

The tension in the air is palpable, electric with vitriol, and for one terrifying second, you expect Guzma’s father to take a swing at his son. His mother’s thoughts seem to mirror yours, and she puts a gentle hand on Guzma’s arm. With a scoff and a shake of his head, Guzma pushes past his father, purposely bumping into his shoulder as he passes. He’s immediately swallowed by the crowd and lost from sight.

Awkwardly, his parents give you an uncertain side-eye, before they, too, turn and disappear into the crowd in the opposite direction. You are left alone, frozen in a sea of people, staring in the direction Guzma had gone. Eventually, the rest of Team Skull catches up. Plumeria hobbles up to you, one crutch under her arm.

“Yo, where’d Guz go?” she asks, casting her gaze about the immediately area for any sign of him.

“...His parents showed up.”

Team Skull hisses a collective wince. You get the distinct impression that this sort of thing has happened before. Plumeria sighs, rubs the back of her neck, and tucks her hands in her pockets. She saddles you with an unreadable expression, chewing on the corner of her bottom him.

“Yeah, that’s what I tried to warn him about.” 

“His dad… how can someone say such cruel things to their own kid?” you ask, casting Plumeria a heartbroken, beseeching look.

“That’s how his pops has always been.” She raises and lowers one shoulder, grimacing. “Always thought Guzma’s dancin’ was stupid and childish. Wanted him to get a real job in an office, like him.”

“But he’s really good!”

“I know, but his old man doesn’t give a shit.” An ugly, disgusted expression crosses Plumeria’s face as she stares at nothing in particular. “He’ll never forgive Guz for droppin’ outta business school. Wanted him to become an _entrepreneur_ like him.” She heaves a sigh, and with it, all her anger seems to leave her. Instead she just looks tired. “Last time Guz and his dad were face to face… well. Wasn’t pretty. Managed to avoid a fight this time around but… Guzma ain’t the most stable of guys, yanno?”

Your imagination immediately comes up with a million and one worst-case scenarios, and panic seizes your heart like a vice. 

“Plumes, can you take me to his place? He drove here today.”

Without a word, she fishes her keys from her pocket, and catches your hand in hers. The pair of you thread through the crowd out into the parking lot, where she leads you to that same familiar jeep. You climb into the passenger seat, Plumeria slides behind the wheel, and moments later the pair of you are speeding towards Guzma’s trailer.

The first few minutes are spent in silence. You send a few text messages to Guzma’s phone that are left on read, which does nothing to ease your anxieties. Eventually, Plumeria speaks up.

“Look… I know this is gonna make me seem like an asshole but… Guzma mentioned getting some advice, yeah?”

“He said he was ignoring it,” you reply, blinking at her in confusion.

“Yeah… well… it was my advice. And it was to not go gettin’ attached to you.” She shifts a little in her seat, her intense eyes flicking momentarily to your face and then back to the road. Her expression shifts between uncertain and ashamed.

“...You told him to avoid me.” You state it plainly. There’s no need to ask, you know the truth now. You can’t say it doesn’t hurt a little.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Plumeria heaves a heavy sigh, her face twisted into a grimace of consternation. “Guz and me, we’re… we’re family. We’ve known each other since we was kids, growin’ up in Alola. I’d straight up kill for him.” She shoots you a brief, apologetic glance. “I was only tryin’ to protect him.”

“I’d never do anything to hurt him,” you say quietly, reaching out to gently touch her upper arm. 

“I know that now.” She manages a little smile. “I’m sorry for bein’ a bitch. I just thought you were gonna be gone soon and --”

“No, it’s okay. I understand.” With a brief smile, you return your gaze out the window, chewing on your lower lip. “I just hope he’s okay.”

You can feel Plumeria’s eyes on you, but you keep your gaze trained on the scenery rushing past. You’re not mad at Plumeria, you really aren’t. In all honesty, if the circumstances were reversed, you’d probably do the exact same thing. A comfortable silence falls between the two of you, and before long, the car pulls into the gravel driveway beside Guzma’s trailer.

“Well…” Plumeria heaves a sigh. “I think it’s best if uh… you handle this alone, yeah?” She gives you a pointed look, brows arched. _What does she --?_

A sudden lump forms in your throat as the expectation dawns on you, and your face grows hot. “Oh. Y-Yeah. Um. I’ll text you, let you know what’s up.”

She nods, and watches as you exit the car and make your way up the wood steps and knock on the trailer’s door. In true good friend fashion, she stays in the driveway, waiting for you to enter.

“Go away,” comes the voice from beyond the door. It’s muffled and slightly sullen, but very much alive, and relief washes over you.

“Guzma? It’s me. Can I come in?”

Silence answers you, but you’re probably the only person who’s just as stubborn as he is.

“I’m not going anywhere, Guzma, so you better just let me in.”

There’s an audible growling sigh, and then a vague sort of clattering. Seconds later, and the door’s wrenched open to reveal Guzma, shirtless from the waist up. There’s a moment where he merely stares at you, brows furrowed into an intense glower, and a fear that he’ll simply slam the door in your face surfaces.

His eyes flick past you to Plumeria still sitting in her car, but you don’t follow his gaze. Instead, you are preoccupied with the sight of his hands. The skin across the knuckles is split, bruised and bleeding -- fresh droplets slide down his fingers and spatter onto the fake wood parquet that surrounds his front door.

“You’re bleeding!”

Tearing his eyes away from Plumeria’s car, he looks down at his hand, and immediately tries to hide it in his pocket. “It’s nothing.”

You grab his wrist. “You’d better let me clean that.”

With your hand firm on his wrist, he grimaces, but seems powerless to disobey you. You push gently past him and into the house. As you kick off your shoes, you hear the sound of Plumeria’s car crunching on the driveway gravel and eventually departing. The two of you are well and truly alone now. You’re not sure if this knowledge thrills or flusters you. You distract your wild imagination with the task at hand. Imperiously, you force a begrudging Guzma to sit on his couch, and hurry to the bathroom in search of cleaning supplies and bandages. Unsurprisingly, there’s very little in the way of first aid, but you manage to scrape together something sufficient. 

As you return to him, you notice several cracked places on the wall, a few of which bear distinct red smudges. Suddenly the cause for his injured hands is very clear, and your heart lurches painfully. You touch one of the miniature craters in the wall, grimacing. _Poor Guzma._ Resolute now, you sit beside him on the couch, your hands gingerly cradling his in your lap as you clean away the blood.

Save for his occasional hissing winces, the room is silent while you work. Every so often you spy a wimpod’s face, peeking out from various hiding places. They look decidedly ruffled. Perhaps their master’s fit of rage had terrified them into hiding. You try to keep your attention from wandering. Guzma seems unable to look anyway near you and stares broodily off into the distance. Eventually, you can’t stand the silence anymore.

“You really have to learn to control your temper.” Your voice is quiet, calm. You half expect him to start yelling.

Instead he scoffs derisively. “Yeah, well… if your moms was as shitty as my dad…” He trails off, scowling down at his hands while you work. “The fuck you even doin’ here?”

Confused, you lift your gaze from his injured hands to blink up at him. “I’m… bandaging your hand?”

“No, I mean…” he sighs, lips pulled taut into a frustrated grimace as he struggles to find the right words. “I ain’t nothin’. I’m a fuckin’ loser, a nobody. Someone like you… shouldn’t be hangin’ out with a fuckin’ thug like me.”

“Shut up, Guzma.” With a shake of your head, you return to the task of cleaning his hands. “I’m _clearly_ here ‘cause I enjoy your company.”

“I’m fuckin’ serious!” He yanks his hands out of your grasp and in the same motion, gets to his feet and begins to aggressively pace the length of his small living room, with all the agitation of a caged persian.

“Yeah, so am I.” Despite the calm tone of your voice, your heart is pounding. “I stick around because I like you. I like being around you.” The sentence is stated simply and without preamble, and you thank your lucky stars your voice doesn’t come out in a squeak. You sound a lot more confident than you feel.

Guzma’s expression is somewhere between confused and disbelieving, his anger giving way to something softer. “...Why?” His voice is quiet, almost _agonized_ with confusion.

Slowly, as if approaching a skittish animal, you get to your feet, and close the distance between the two of you. With a reassuring smile, you reach up and touch his jaw with your fingertips, your thumb stroking his stubbled cheek soothingly. Brows furrowed in surprise and fear and confusion, he stiffens for half a heartbeat, before his eyes slide closed and he leans imperceptibly into your touch. A muscle in his jaw jumps. You can’t recall ever seeing him this vulnerable.

“Does the why matter? I like you, Guzma.” You shuffle a step closer, heart hammering. “I-I really do.”

“Thought I’d fucked up my chance with you when I blew off practice.” His voice is raw and rough, his expression unsure. Slowly, he lifts his injured hand to yours, touching the back of your palm with his fingers.

Your gaze flicks to the split skin on his knuckles, still oozing blood.

“Let me finish cleaning that,” you say, sheepish, and pull him by his hand towards the couch.

He resists.

You step away, but he’s stronger, and as if you’re rehearsing the dance routine, you’re spinning back into his arms. Before you know what’s what, you find yourself in his embrace, and suddenly his lips are claiming yours with an intensity that steals your very breath. A jolt like touching a faulty outlet sparks through you, leaving you weak in the knees. When he withdraws just a fraction to look you in the eye, you cling to his shoulders, desperately trying to remember how to breathe. 

You stare up at him, eyes wide, not daring to believe this is really real. But no, this isn’t one of your dreams. He doesn’t disappear in a puff of smoke, the moment interrupted by the sound of your alarm.

His injuries are quickly forgotten. All that built-up yearning is finally getting a release, and both of you are powerless to stop the momentum of it. Never have you been kissed like this before, with this breathtaking intensity, and it’s dizzying. His arms slide around your waist like they have so many times before in your dance, but there’s a fragility there, as if he’s worried he might break you somehow. With all the grace of a herd of slowpokes, the pair of you shuffle awkwardly down the hallway and collapse onto his squeaky mattress.

It isn’t until Guzma yanks off your shirt and tosses it to the floor that the reality of the situation truly dawns on you. Although nervousness floods your veins, you can honestly say you’ve never wanted this more. His mouth returns to yours, desperately seeking the taste of your lips, and he murmurs softly in Alolan between each kiss. 

You make a mental note to ask what the words mean. 

Both of you come together in a fervor, hands pulling eagerly at clothing and skin. It’s a slow and careful thing, both alike and unlike the dance you’ve performed. The pace allows you to thoroughly explore him with your fingers, and he with you, punctuating each caress with a kiss. Occasionally, you catch him staring at you with a heated intensity, drinking in every reaction you give -- committing everything about you to his memory. The taste of him, the scent of him, the _feel_ of him… it all drives you mad with desire.

The very edge of sleep finds you some time later, securely nestled against Guzma’s chest. Your eyes are closed, but you know he’s wide awake and watching you. His fingertips trace featherlight patterns across the skin of your upper arm and shoulder blade.

“Guzma?” Your voice comes as a whisper, thick with that barely-awake grogginess that pulls at your mind.

“Mm?” His voice mirrors your own drowsiness.

You both wish to see his face and fear you wouldn't be able to speak if you _could_ see it. Tucking your head beneath his chin, your fingers toy idly with the dark curls dusting his bare chest. The words are stuck in your throat and seem reluctant to be dislodged.

“What… does this make us? A-Are… I mean… If you don’t… want…”

“Hey,” he cuts you off with a harsh whisper, and pulls you deeper into his embrace. “...You know I’m fuckin’ crazy about you, right? Thought that was obvious.” The words are hushed and tentative, and his pulse spikes beneath your fingers.

A thrill steals through you, and you can’t seem to remember how to breathe. Your lips curl into a secretive smile. “Yeah? Me too.” Your face feels hot. “I mean… I’m… a-about you, too.”

He chuckles, low and husky and _relieved_ , and presses a soft kiss to your forehead, your cheeks, your lips. He lingers there, seemingly unable to pull away, and if it weren’t for exhaustion felt by both of you, the kisses would surely escalate. Guzma settles against you, cradling your form to his. In a matter of minutes, his breathing evens out and he drifts off into a deep sleep. The mad whirl of thoughts spinning around your head keep you awake just a little longer.

Truthfully, this all feels a little surreal. If you’re honest, you’ve been crushing on him for a long time, since you’ve met him, and now that it’s actually happening… it’s more than a bit bewildering. You’re not exactly a master at relationships.

Guzma’s arms tighten around you a little, and he murmurs quietly in his sleep. His embrace is so comforting and so warm, and just knowing that he’s allowing himself to be vulnerable with you makes your heart throb with feeling. Maybe this will work out. At the very least, you can make an attempt.


	11. (optional)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the next chapter are "optional" and pretty much copies of one another with a few things changed. I don't recommend reading both. This one is with a AFAB reader and mentions characteristics such as breasts and vaginal penetration.

In a jumbled heap of limbs, you fall beneath Guzma onto his squeaky mattress. After so many hours spent dancing around one another, just the fervent kisses are a soothing balm to a sunburn. You can’t get him out of his clothes fast enough, and it seems he mirrors this sentiment. Without breaking away from the kiss for longer than a heartbeat, his hands are everywhere at once. They move with purpose across your body, pushing and pulling at your clothing in irritation.

“Why the fuck you wearin’ so many clothes?” he grumbles against your lips, as his fingers fumble with the knot in the string of your sweatpants.

A sheepish, undignified snort of a laugh bubbles from your lips. “I don’t know, I’m sorry!” 

In irritation, he mutters something in Alolan, and returns to his task. His mouth overlaps yours, transforming your giggles into sighs and moans. With one arm braced against the mattress, he sends the other hand beneath your shirt.

“Cold! Cold hands!” Your voice comes in a harsh whisper and you jerk away with a hiss, goosebumps chasing his touch.

“Don’t you fuckin’ worry, sweet thing, I’m gonna warm ‘em right up,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. The timbre of his voice, the heat of his breath, the intensity of his words… it all has your toes curling, and a tremulous breath escapes you.

He only chuckles huskily in response.

As his teeth scrape white and sharp against the sensitive skin of your neck, his hands moves further north beneath your shirt. His fingers brush against the curve of your breast, thumb flicking over the nipple until you writhe and moan. Relentlessly, he kneads at the soft flesh, tortures that hardened peak, building such a delicious friction between your legs that you’re liable to burn from the inside out. A low, keening whine escapes you, and Guzma’s chuckle is equal parts infuriating and arousing.

“You make the best fuckin’ noises, baby.”

“Fucker,” you gasp out, managing only a fraction of the venom you intend. “Don’t tease me!” You  _ hate _ how whiny your voice sounds. 

He lifts his head from your collarbone to meet your gaze. The soft glow from his lava lamp reflects off his eyes, creating two glinting embers in the darkness of his face. It sends shivers down your spine. He’s not smiling, but his expression is by no means dour or upset. It’s merely… intense. It’s that same deep concentrated look he’s given you so many times before, his brows furrowed ever so slightly, his pupils blown wide in the semi-darkness.

For a moment, time slows. At least, you’re sure it’s only a moment. It feels like years. Your hands move across his cheek and jaw, gaze following the movements of your fingertips. His eyes, however, never waver from your face. As your thumb traces across his bottom lip, you catch your own between your teeth, the corners of your mouth turning up in a little smirk.

“...You’re fuckin’ gorgeous, you know that?” Guzma’s voice is low, and there’s a desire-roughened quality that has your breath hitching in your throat.

“Shut up.”

“I fuckin’ mean it,” he replies, propping himself up on one elbow. A wolfish smirk curves his lips, and he dips his head. While his free hand gravitates towards your midriff, he traces his lips across your throat, peppering your skin with soft kisses. With an almost lazy, lackadaisical demeanor, his fingers brush against the exposed skin of your stomach, and inch towards the waistband of your sweatpants. “So fuckin’ pretty… and you smell so fuckin’ good.”

“Guzma…” At this point, you can barely even breathe, let alone speak. Your throat feels raw and tight.

“And my name sounds so  _ fuckin’ _ good comin’ out of you…” A little chuckle escapes him, tickling your ear with his breath. “Especially when you get all breathy with it…” With some maneuvering, he nestles himself between your thighs, and you feel that hardness there, trapped within the confines of his sweatpants.

A thrill chases through you, and your breath quickens.

With a barely restrained grunt, Guzma presses himself against you, breathing hard and ragged, and repeats the motion again and again, growling under his breath with each stroke. The friction between your thighs is rapidly reaching a maddening height, and you can’t hold back your desperation. You voice it, loud and breathless. It dwindles to a whimper, quiet and pitiful, and his only response is to murmur in more heated Alolan.

Clothes are shed in bits and pieces. His hands pull at the fabric of your shirt, greedy for more of your skin. Every sliver he uncovers is quickly claimed by his mouth, and the thought of your skin bearing marks excites you more than it should.

He sits back on his heels and in one fluid motion, yanks off his tank top. You’ve seen him shirtless many times before, but this is an entirely new beast. Now there’s no more awkwardness, no more pretending you don’t want to look. You  _ want _ to look, to explore, to see everything. Your hands move to his abdomen, fingers eagerly skating across his stomach. Goosebumps spread across his skin, chasing your touch. 

“Fuck, I’m lucky…” Guzma’s voice comes as a low rumble. He plants his hands on either side of your shoulders, lowering himself until his face hovers a few inches above yours. “Can’t fuckin’ believe I got you here… like this…” He steals a brief kiss from your lips. “Think I’ve been wantin’ this since we met.”

“You had… a  _ very _ funny way of showing it.” Your tone is as scathing as you can make it, which is decidedly  _ not _ as scathing as you want. “I recall you being less than friendly that first day.”

A chuckle escapes him, low and quiet, directly near your ear. “I got better, didn’t I?” He presses a kiss to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. He hooks his thumbs in the waistband of your sweats.

“Barely.”

Guzma snorts out a little laugh. He shimmies down lower, his fingers pulling the waistband of your pants as he goes. As he yanks off your pants, balls them up, and tosses them to the floor, you sit up, reach behind you, and unhook your bra. You’re in the process of pulling it out from underneath your shirt when he returns to you, lowering himself with purpose in his eyes.

Anxiety sparks in your veins as his intentions become clear. His fingers are tugging at your briefs now, sliding them down your thighs until they, too, join the rest of your clothes on the floor. Instinctively, you draw yourself up, trying to hide your nudity beneath your shirt.

But he’s having none of that. 

Gently but firmly, his hands push apart your thighs. With a low rumble of pleasure, he spreads you before him. There’s a moment where you want the bedspread to swallow you whole, you’re so consumed with embarrassment. Surely, he’ll make some excuse, get up and leave. 

Instead, he lowers his head and presses a trail of sweet kisses to your inner thigh. The light stubble on his jaw catches on the sensitive skin there, rasping quietly as his lips move closer and closer to where you desperately need them. Infuriatingly, he seems content to avoid that particular spot. 

“Guzma…” You  _ mean _ for this to come out stern, but instead it just come out like a whine.

“Yeah, baby?” He lifts his head, and the smile that curves his lips is nothing short of shit-eating.

“Your  _ mouth.” _

“What about it?”

“Please!” You’re just a little crazed at the infuriating proximity of his lips. Close, but not where you  _ really _ want them.

“Aight, since you asked  _ so nicely… _ ”

Another chuckle escapes him, rough and low, and he dips his head. As his trail of kisses moves closer and closer to that apex, your hand latches onto his hair like a lifeline. At the sweet,  _ wonderful _ moment of connection, when his hot mouth and tongue overlaps your sex, you cry out. You’re simply unable to keep the noises at bay, and you get the distinct impression he wouldn’t want you to silence yourself. Your fingers curl at the base of his skull, nails digging into his scalp, and the tension slowly ebbs from your body. 

A long, low keening escapes you, like the quiet sigh of a summer breeze, and you simply melt into the sheets. Your eyelids droop, and eventually close. How is he so  _ good at this? _

He continues on, head moving with enthusiasm, groaning softly against your flesh. Each noise sends delicious ripples through your body, bringing you closer and closer to that edge. With only minor fumbling on his part, his hand finds yours, fisted in the bed sheets, and your fingers lace together. It’s a surprisingly intimate interaction, and somehow provides an even starker impact than that of his tongue. Your heart beats so fast you fear it might burst.

Craning your neck, you chance a glimpse down at him, and another thrill surges through you. His eyes are open, dark with desire, and fixed intently on your face. You watch him watching you for as long as you can bear, until a particularly enthusiastic swipe of his tongue has you too addled to continue. With a wordless cry, your head flops back against the pillows, and you lose yourself in the sensation once more.

Before too long, the edge of the abyss comes hurtling toward you. It nearly catches you off guard, and the strength of the orgasm briefly robs you of your senses. You barely manage a gasp of warning before your hips thrust upward, overtaken with the sudden surge of pleasure. If it weren’t for Guzma’s arm wrapping around you, you’d simply float away. Mercilessly, he continues on, his arm holding you in place while his mouth winds you up so tightly you think you just might snap. The pleasure feeds into a subtle throbbing pain, the two becoming so intermingled that you can’t tell the difference. It’s  _ too much. _

With a half-gasped string of curses, you push his head away and roll away onto your side, twitching and convulsing from overstimulation. Your eyes are closed, and over the sound of your heavy breathing and heart pounding, you barely hear Guzma chuckle.

“Fuck you…”

The bed dips, and his hand caresses your shoulder. “We’re gettin’ to that, here in a sec, baby.” With a snorting laugh, he places his warmth behind you, pressing softly against your back. With patience you honestly did not think he had, he waits until you’ve recovered enough to continue. 

You roll onto your back, and catch his gaze. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” he replies, lip quirking into that lopsided smile. “How you doin’?”

“Doing good.” 

“Good.” He captures your lips in a soft kiss, successfully re-igniting your cooling passions. His hands move with purpose down your body, squeezing, pulling, caressing, pinching. It’s not long before your body reacts, desperately seeking more of that delicious friction, and he’s more than pleased to oblige you.

More clothing is shed, but now that desperation is hitting a fever pitch, and the minute detail of  _ clothing _ seems less than important. Instead of removing your shirt, Guzma insteads opts for simply pushing greedily at the fabric until your breasts are exposed to the cool air. The chill lasts for only a second, however, as his mouth -- hot and wet -- descends on one nipple and then its twin. It’s a nearly ceaseless onslaught; when one nipple is under the ministrations of his tongue, the other is being pinched and rolled and flicked with the thumb of his hand. 

Words are difficult. Instead, you let out a piteous whine.

Guzma chuckles, and lifts his head. “You’re ready again quick, huh? You a needy little thing, ain’t ya?”

“If I’m needy then you’re a cocktease.”

With a snort of a laugh, he pushes himself onto his hands and knees, and shifts over to the bedside table. After a moment of rummaging, he retrieves a wrapped condom from the drawer. Smirking that damned smirk, he makes a show of ripping open the packaging with his teeth, which thrills you more than it should. Not once does his eyes leave yours. The eye contact continues on until it becomes nearly unbearable.

When he returns to you, hips nestled between your thighs, he captures your lips in another breath-stealing kiss. Your hands move automatically to his hair, fingernails scraping against his scalp, as he presses slowly but surely inside. There’s a delicious ache as he fills you, inch by inch, until he’s fully hilted within you. 

A shaky, breathless moan escapes you. Eyes closed, head back against the pillow, you wait for him to move… but he remains motionless.

Your eyes flutter open to regard him curiously. “Guzma?”

“G-Gimme a minute, babe, aight?” His words come out terse, through gritted teeth. He shifts a little, bracing his weight onto one elbow. “Mighta gotten myself worked up a little here. Tryin’ to keep the show from ending early.” He draws a shaky breath through clenched teeth, and pulls your thighs around his hips. 

You press a soft kiss to his throat, his collarbone, his jaw -- hoping to convey patience and understanding. Your fingers card through his hair, nails scraping against his scalp. You watch in fascinating as goosebumps rise across his skin.

After a few more moments of adjusting, the show begins in earnest. For someone with a history of being occasionally hot-headed, Guzma is a surprisingly gentle lover. Not once do you ever feel pain or discomfort or unease, nor have you ever felt such a deep connection to someone before. It’s as if he can read your thoughts before you even have them, and adjusts the positioning or tempo to suit your needs. All the while, he murmurs words of encouragement and praise in your ear, his voice husky and raw.

Is it any wonder you lose yourself? Between his mouth and his hands and his cock, you’re brought to that wondrous edge again and again. There’s a dull throb of pain with every stroke, but you’d rather die than stop now. When he finally follows you over that pleasurable precipice, he buries the sound of his bliss in the crook of your neck. 

For a few minutes, the two of you lie together in a exhausted heap. His weight is warm and not unwelcome, pressing you into the mattress. His breath tickles your neck. Sudden exhaustion takes hold of you, and your eyelids begin to droop. The sound of his breathing slowly evens out, and he reluctantly parts from you for clean up.

Eventually, you find yourself cocooned underneath the blanket, curled in Guzma’s warm embrace. While sleep slowly claims you, he seems content to lay awake, stroking your back with lazy, soft fingers. Idle thoughts bleed into dreams. A few words are exchanged between the two of you, and you drift off into a comfortable, dreamless slumber.


	12. (optional)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the previous chapter are "optional" and pretty much copies of one another with a few things changed. I don't recommend reading both. This one is with a AMAB reader and mentions characteristics such as a penis and anal penetration.

In a jumbled heap of limbs, you fall beneath Guzma onto his squeaky mattress. After so many hours spent dancing around one another, just the fervent kisses are a soothing balm to a sunburn. You can’t get him out of his clothes fast enough, and it seems he mirrors this sentiment. Without breaking away from the kiss for longer than a heartbeat, his hands are everywhere at once. They move with purpose across your body, pushing and pulling at your clothing in irritation.

“Why the fuck you wearin’ so many clothes?” he grumbles against your lips, as his fingers fumble with the knot in the string of your sweatpants.

A sheepish, undignified snort of a laugh bubbles from your lips. “I don’t know, I’m sorry!” 

In irritation, he mutters something in Alolan, and returns to his task. His mouth overlaps yours, transforming your giggles into sighs and moans. With one arm braced against the mattress, he sends the other hand beneath your shirt.

“Cold! Cold hands!” Your voice comes in a harsh whisper and you jerk away with a hiss, goosebumps chasing his touch.

“Don’t you fuckin’ worry, sweet thing, I’m gonna warm ‘em right up,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. The timbre of his voice, the heat of his breath, the intensity of his words… it all has your toes curling, and a tremulous breath escapes you.

He only chuckles huskily in response.

As his teeth scrape white and sharp against the sensitive skin of your neck, his hands moves further north beneath your shirt. His fingers brush against the stiffening peak of your nipple, thumb flicking over the nipple until you writhe and moan. Relentlessly, he tortures that little bud, building such a delicious heat within your belly that you’re liable to burn from the inside out. A low, keening whine escapes you, and Guzma’s chuckle is equal parts infuriating and arousing.

“You make the best fuckin’ noises, baby.”

“Fucker,” you gasp out, managing only a fraction of the venom you intend. “Don’t tease me!” You  _ hate _ how whiny your voice sounds. 

He lifts his head from your collarbone to meet your gaze. The soft glow from his lava lamp reflects off his eyes, creating two glinting embers in the darkness of his face. It sends shivers down your spine. He’s not smiling, but his expression is by no means dour or upset. It’s merely… intense. It’s that same deep concentrated look he’s given you so many times before, his brows furrowed ever so slightly, his pupils blown wide in the semi-darkness.

For a moment, time slows. At least, you’re sure it’s only a moment. It feels like years. Your hands move across his cheek and jaw, gaze following the movements of your fingertips. His eyes, however, never waver from your face. As your thumb traces across his bottom lip, you catch your own between your teeth, the corners of your mouth turning up in a little smirk.

“...You’re fuckin’ gorgeous, you know that?” Guzma’s voice is low, and there’s a desire-roughened quality that has your breath hitching in your throat.

“Shut up.”

“I fuckin’ mean it,” he replies, propping himself up on one elbow. A wolfish smirk curves his lips, and he dips his head. While his free hand gravitates towards your midriff, he traces his lips across your throat, peppering your skin with soft kisses. With an almost lazy, lackadaisical demeanor, his fingers brush against the exposed skin of your stomach, and inch towards the waistband of your sweatpants. “So fuckin’ pretty… and you smell so fuckin’ good.”

“Guzma…” At this point, you can barely even breathe, let alone speak. Your throat feels raw and tight.

“And my name sounds so  _ fuckin’ _ good comin’ out of you…” A little chuckle escapes him, tickling your ear with his breath. “Especially when you get all breathy with it…” With some maneuvering, he nestles himself between your thighs, and you feel that hardness there, mirroring your own -- trapped within the confines of your clothing.

A thrill chases through you, and your breath quickens.

With a barely restrained grunt, Guzma presses himself against you, breathing hard and ragged, and repeats the motion again and again, growling under his breath with each stroke. The friction between the two of you is rapidly reaching a maddening height, and you can’t hold back your desperation. You voice it, loud and breathless. It dwindles to a whimper, quiet and pitiful, and his only response is to murmur in more heated Alolan.

Clothes are shed in bits and pieces. His hands pull at the fabric of your shirt, greedy for more of your skin. Every sliver he uncovers is quickly claimed by his mouth, and the thought of your skin bearing marks excites you more than it should.

He sits back on his heels and in one fluid motion, yanks off his tank top. You’ve seen him shirtless many times before, but this is an entirely new beast. Now there’s no more awkwardness, no more pretending you don’t want to look. You  _ want _ to look, to explore, to see everything. Your hands move to his abdomen, fingers eagerly skating across his stomach. Goosebumps spread across his skin, chasing your touch. 

“Fuck, I’m lucky…” Guzma’s voice comes as a low rumble. He plants his hands on either side of your shoulders, lowering himself until his face hovers a few inches above yours. “Can’t fuckin’ believe I got you here… like this…” He steals a brief kiss from your lips. “Think I’ve been wantin’ this since we met.”

“You had… a  _ very _ funny way of showing it.” Your tone is as scathing as you can make it, which is decidedly  _ not _ as scathing as you want. “I recall you being less than friendly that first day.”

A chuckle escapes him, low and quiet, directly near your ear. “I got better, didn’t I?” He presses a kiss to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. He hooks his thumbs in the waistband of your sweats.

“Barely.”

Guzma snorts out a little laugh. He shimmies down lower, his fingers pulling the waistband of your pants as he goes. As he yanks off your pants, balls them up, and tosses them to the floor, a hot flush crawls across your cheeks, consuming your whole face. You’re in the process of collecting your scattered thoughts when he returns to you, lowering himself with purpose in his eyes.

Anxiety sparks in your veins as his intentions become clear. His fingers are tugging at your briefs now, sliding them down your thighs until they, too, join the rest of your clothes on the floor. Your stiff cock springs free at last. Instinctively, you draw yourself up, trying to hide your nudity beneath your shirt.

But he’s having none of that. 

Gently but firmly, his hands push apart your thighs. With a low rumble of pleasure, he spreads you before him. There’s a moment where you want the bedspread to swallow you whole, you’re so consumed with embarrassment. Surely, he’ll make some excuse, get up and leave. 

Instead, he lowers his head and presses a trail of sweet kisses to your inner thigh. The light stubble on his jaw catches on the sensitive skin there, rasping quietly as his lips move closer and closer to where you desperately need them. Infuriatingly, he seems content to avoid that particular spot. Your cock  _ aches _ with need, and a pearly bead of precum is already collected at the tip.

“Guzma…” You  _ mean _ for this to come out stern, but instead it just come out like a whine.

“Yeah, baby?” He lifts his head, and the smile that curves his lips is nothing short of shit-eating.

“Your  _ mouth.” _

“What about it?”

“Please!” You’re just a little crazed at the infuriating proximity of his lips. Close, but not where you  _ really _ want them.

“Aight, since you asked  _ so nicely… _ ”

Another chuckle escapes him, rough and low, and he dips his head. As his trail of kisses moves closer and closer to that apex, your hand latches onto his hair like a lifeline. At the sweet,  _ wonderful _ moment of connection, when his tongue washes hot and wet along the underside of your cock, you cry out. You’re simply unable to keep the noises at bay, and you get the distinct impression he wouldn’t want you to silence yourself. Your fingers curl at the base of his skull, nails digging into his scalp, and the tension slowly ebbs from your body. 

A long, low keening escapes you, like the quiet sigh of a summer breeze, and you simply melt into the sheets. Your eyelids droop, and eventually close. How is he so  _ good at this? _

He continues on, head bobbing with enthusiasm, groaning softly against your flesh. Each noise sends delicious ripples through your body, bringing you closer and closer to that edge. With only minor fumbling on his part, his hand finds yours, fisted in the bed sheets, and your fingers lace together. It’s a surprisingly intimate interaction, and somehow provides an even starker impact than that of his tongue. Your heart beats so fast you fear it might burst.

Craning your neck, you chance a glimpse down at him, and another thrill surges through you. His eyes are open, dark with desire, and fixed intently on your face. You watch him watching you for as long as you can bear, until a particularly enthusiastic suck of his mouth has you too addled to continue. With a wordless cry, your head flops back against the pillows, and you lose yourself in the sensation once more.

Before too long, the edge of the abyss comes hurtling toward you. It nearly catches you off guard, and the strength of the orgasm briefly robs you of your senses. You barely manage a gasp of warning before your hips thrust upward, overtaken with the sudden surge of pleasure. If it weren’t for Guzma’s arm wrapping around you, you’d simply float away. Mercilessly, he continues on, his arm holding you in place while his mouth winds you up so tightly you think you just might snap. Distantly, you’re aware he’s swallowing  _ all _ you have to give. The pleasure feeds into a subtle throbbing pain, the two becoming so intermingled that you can’t tell the difference. It’s  _ too much. _

With a half-gasped string of curses, you push his head away and roll away onto your side, twitching and convulsing from overstimulation. Your eyes are closed, and over the sound of your heavy breathing and heart pounding, you barely hear Guzma chuckle.

“Fuck you…”

The bed dips, and his hand caresses your shoulder. “We’re gettin’ to that, here in a sec, baby.” With a snorting laugh, he places his warmth behind you, pressing softly against your back. With patience you honestly did not think he had, he waits until you’ve recovered enough to continue. 

You roll onto your back, and catch his gaze. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” he replies, lip quirking into that lopsided smile. “How you doin’?”

“Doing good.” 

“Good.” He captures your lips in a soft kiss, successfully re-igniting your cooling passions. His hands move with purpose down your body, squeezing, pulling, caressing, pinching. It’s not long before your body reacts, desperately seeking more of that delicious friction, and he’s more than pleased to oblige you.

More clothing is shed, but now that desperation is hitting a fever pitch, and the minute detail of  _ clothing _ seems less than important. Instead of removing your shirt, Guzma insteads opts for simply pushing greedily at the fabric until your chest is exposed to the cool air. The chill lasts for only a second, however, as his mouth -- hot and wet -- descends on one nipple and then its twin. It’s a nearly ceaseless onslaught; when one nipple is under the ministrations of his tongue, the other is being pinched and rolled and flicked with the thumb of his hand. 

Words are difficult. Instead, you let out a piteous whine.

Guzma chuckles, and lifts his head. “You’re ready again so quick, huh? You a needy little thing, ain’t ya?”

“If I’m needy then you’re a cocktease.”

With a snort of a laugh, he pushes himself onto his hands and knees, and shifts over to the bedside table. After a moment of rummaging, he retrieves a wrapped condom and a bottle of lube from the drawer. Smirking that damned smirk, he makes a show of ripping open the condom packaging with his teeth, which thrills you more than it should. Not once does his eyes leave yours while he prepares. The eye contact continues on until it becomes nearly unbearable.

When he returns to you, hips nestled between your thighs and cock slick with lube, he captures your lips in another breath-stealing kiss. Your hands move automatically to his hair, fingernails scraping against his scalp, as he presses slowly but surely inside. There’s a delicious ache as he fills you, inch by inch, until he’s fully hilted within you. 

A shaky, breathless moan escapes you. Eyes closed, head back against the pillow, you wait for him to move… but he remains motionless.

Your eyes flutter open to regard him curiously. “Guzma?”

“G-Gimme a minute, babe, aight?” His words come out terse, through gritted teeth. He shifts a little, bracing his weight onto one elbow. “Mighta gotten myself worked up a little here. Tryin’ to keep the show from ending early.” He draws a shaky breath through clenched teeth, and pulls your thighs around his hips. 

You press a soft kiss to his throat, his collarbone, his jaw -- hoping to convey patience and understanding. Your fingers card through his hair, nails scraping against his scalp. You watch in fascinating as goosebumps rise across his skin.

After a few more moments of adjusting, the show begins in earnest. For someone with a history of being occasionally hot-headed, Guzma is a surprisingly gentle lover. Not once do you ever feel pain or discomfort or unease, nor have you ever felt such a deep connection to someone before. It’s as if he can read your thoughts before you even have them, and adjusts the positioning or tempo to suit your needs. All the while, he murmurs words of encouragement and praise in your ear, his voice husky and raw.

Is it any wonder you lose yourself? Between his mouth and his hands and his cock, you’re brought to that wondrous edge again. There’s a dull throb of pain with every stroke, but you’d rather die than stop now. When he finally follows you over that pleasurable precipice, he buries the sound of his bliss in the crook of your neck. 

For a few minutes, the two of you lie together in a exhausted heap. His weight is warm and not unwelcome, pressing you into the mattress. His breath tickles your neck. Sudden exhaustion takes hold of you, and your eyelids begin to droop. The sound of his breathing slowly evens out, and he reluctantly parts from you for clean up.

Eventually, you find yourself cocooned underneath the blanket, curled in Guzma’s warm embrace. While sleep slowly claims you, he seems content to lay awake, stroking your back with lazy, soft fingers. Idle thoughts bleed into dreams. A few words, tender and quiet, are exchanged between the two of you, and you drift off into a comfortable, dreamless slumber.


	13. Chapter 13

It’s odd how much has changed and how much has stayed the same.

Like the previous rounds, the success of the past routine has really lit a fire beneath Team Skull. You and Guzma have been working nearly nonstop on developing a new one for the semifinals. You’ve never seen him so determined and driven and _patient_ before. It’s quite the transformation, and he isn’t the only one who has experienced some changes. You yourself have gone from a clumsy amateur with two left feet to a graceful performer to rival any of the Team Skull members. You find yourself able to keep up with the lengthy practices Guzma’s been scheduling, and feel only minimal exertion afterwards.

Those parts of your life have become the new norm, and you’re settling into them well. It’s the other, newer aspects that both terrify and excite you.

Ever since the night you two shared together, the shyness between you and Guzma has stayed the same, oddly enough. He seems to want to spend time with you, but once you are together, he barely seems to know what to talk about. Much like the both of you, the relationship has transformed, and now it’s a new bewildering entity, this unspoken _thing_ between the two of you. Occasionally, when you’re alone together, he steals a distinctly unchaste kiss from your lips -- a quick but effective reminder of his affections. More than once, it’s led to some extracurricular activities wherever the two of you can find privacy.

Sometimes you marvel at how different your life has become in the weeks since meeting Guzma. And it startles you, sometimes, how your stomach still flutters when he laughs or when he leans on you or when he’s snoring quietly in bed beside you.

It’s nice. _More_ than nice.

Your mother seems to be over the moon with all your accomplishments. Sometimes you catch her staring at you with a doting expression, practically bubbling over with pride. She insists on having Guzma over for dinner as often as she can feasibly get away with, and delights in how embarrassed you seem to be whenever they interact. Guzma, at the very least, seems to not notice. Or at the very least, he’s good at pretending that he doesn’t.

“He’s so respectful around you,” you say to your mom one night after dinner. The subject in question is upstairs, taking a shower, while you two finish up the dishes. “It’s weird.”

“Is he?” Your mother hands you a wet dish to dry. “Is he not normally respectful?”

“...No, not really.” You smile, soft and secretive, and your hands still on the still-damp dish. “But he’s… good. He’s got problems with authority and a lot of baggage and kind of a temper, but he’s a good guy.”

Your mother stares at you, halfway to handing you another dish. “Sweetheart.”

“What! Oh.” With your cheeks suddenly very warm, you hurriedly dry your dish and set it in the cabinet, before taking the next one. “Sorry.”

“You’re very taken with him. It’s sweet. I think he’s pretty into you, too.” She offers you a knowing smile as she scrubs another dish clean. “I know you don’t really care what I think one way or another, but I wanted you to know that I approve.”

She’s right -- her approval isn’t something you’ve ever found yourself really needing, but you’re happy to have it nonetheless. To know that your mother approves of your choices lifts a weight you weren’t even aware you were carrying. After you dry and replace the last dish, you turn and envelop your mother in a hug from behind, burying your face into her shoulder.

“Thanks, Mom.”

She chuckles a little and turns in your embrace to drape her arms around you. “When I was your age, my mom tried to keep me from going out with a boy she disapproved of. He was poor but kind and good, and I resented her for interfering for a long time.” She smoothes your hair back from your face and presses a kiss to your forehead. “I told myself I would never do anything like that to my child.”

“What happened with you and the boy?”

She smiles down at you. “Oh, I dated him anyway. Ended up marrying him, and had a talented, beautiful, _wonderful_ child with him.” There are tears pooled at the edge of her eyes now. She wipes them away. “He had to leave me earlier than expected, but I see him every day in the face of that child. And I am so proud.”

“Mom…”

“Aight, ready to -- oh. S-Sorry, am I interruptin’ somethin’?”

Both you and your mother look away from each other to see Guzma standing in the doorway, hair damp and expression embarrassed. He seems unable to make eye contact with either of you.

“No, not at all.” With one final squeeze, your mother releases you, and steps around to lock the back door. She turns back to the two of you, a momentary expression “Now, Guzma, it’s much too late for you to drive home. You just stay here tonight.”

“Oh, uh…” Guzma’s eyes flick to your face momentarily, and back to your mother. “Aight, thanks, ma’am.” With one final, quizzical look in your direction, he hesitates for just one moment. Perhaps he thinks there’s an addendum? When no further instructions follows, he turns and heads back upstairs.

You hang back. “Good night, Mom. Love you.” 

“Ditto, dearest.” She gives you another kiss on your cheek.

When you enter your room, Guzma is sitting on your bed, tapping on his phone. He looks up as you enter, and a shit-eating grin curves his lip.

“Ya moms likes me.” If possible, his grin grows even bigger. “Been awhile since someone’s moms liked me.”

“She does like you,” you reply, shutting your door. “I was surprised, honestly.”

He wrinkles his nose. “Surprised? Why?”

“Well, you’re kind of…” How best to put this? “Rough around the edges.” 

This answer seems to strike a nerve. His disgruntled expression pulls a gentle laugh from your lips, and you cross the room to his side. With your fingertips, you lift his chin and bring his gaze up to meet yours. Unable to disobey this unspoken command, he looks up at you with an uncharacteristically soft expression.

“But I like you.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm. I would like you even if my mom didn’t like you.” Slowly, you slip into his lap, bringing your lips temptingly close. “I liked you even when you were a dick.”

“Ain’t a dick…” mumbles Guzma, his eyelids drooping. His hands move automatically around your waist, moving down the curve of your ass.

“Mm-hmm, you were…” 

A soft laugh escapes you, which he quickly silences with a kiss, and the two of you share an intimate moment before falling into a deep and comfortable sleep.

Hau and Reese develop a close knit friendship, and it becomes customary to see the two of them together. They get up to some… unusual shenanigans. Reese comes up with this particular dare called ‘the silly seadra’, and you just know it’s going to get one of them killed someday. Anytime one of them says to the other “bro, do the silly seadra” they are obligated to jump into the closest body of water. Hau once said it to Reese when they were walking over a very tall bridge.

It’s the _worst._

One of their favorite things is what they call ‘Pokemon Snaps’. Of all their little hobbies, this one is their most obnoxious. They go out camping for a weekend in the woods, and when they come back, they make everyone sit down together to show off their ‘wonderful’ pictures. Slide after slide of purposely blurry photographs of perfectly mundane pokemon, but the presentation of it is really the best part.

“Who’s that pokemon?” cries Hau, as the slide changes to a fuzzy image of a pokemon. From the shape of the yellowish blob amongst the greenery, it’s clearly just a pikachu.

“It’s raikou!” yells Reese.

“I’m about to go outta my fuckin’ mind,” growls Guzma, burying his face in his hands.

The slide changes to a clearer version of the same scene. Yep, that’s a pikachu. It’s not even a shiny pikachu or a particularly interesting pikachu. Half-groaned laughter escapes everyone watching from the couch. Hau and Reese continue on for about 20 more minutes, which is the precise limit of Guzma’s patience. When they show a picture of a ditto and give their guess (“It’s a ditto!”), he threatens to make them eat their own hands and they reluctantly stop.

It’s always an unsure thing, introducing two different friend groups to one another, but it takes you by surprise just how well Lillie integrates herself with your flourishing friend circle. It all starts with you mismanaging your time and accidentally double-booking yourself. You told Lillie you’d go out for lunch with at the same time you told Leslie you’d go shopping with her. Guzma’s busy with some seminar you convinced him to go to, “Teaching for the Uneducated”, and you’re nearly bored to tears. In an effort to not go batshit, you plan a friend’s excursion.

“Well, why don’t you just go out with them at the same time?” As you’re panicking over this interpersonal setback, your very smart mother puts forth this idea.

“They’ve never met, Mom. What if they hate each other?”

“Never know if you don’t give it a try.”

Damn it, she’s right. With a sigh, you text both Leslie and Lillie and set them up to meet you at a local mall’s food court, hoping that this works out well for everyone. 

When you arrive and find them in the food court, they’re both sitting at the same table, chatting amicably over coffee. Both are smiling and laughing -- maybe this won’t be so bad after all. As you approach, Lillie pulls out an open bag of red vines from that strange duffel she always carries and offers the bag to Leslie.

“Hey, guys!” You take an empty chair from a nearby table and bring it to theirs. “So an explanation first… I fucked up and double-booked today.” You grimace. “I’m not great at managing time.”

“Oh, it’s fine!” says Leslie, taking a bite from the red vine in her hands. “We figured that’s what happened.”

“So… you guys are cool with hanging out together?”

“Yeah! I’m always up for making new friends.”

The three of you spend the next few hours wandering the mall. Leslie finds herself a cute dress on clearance, and she only has to fight one old woman and her ditto for it. Lillie comes across a new duffel in a creamy white, and a cute set of pokemon-themed enamel pins to decorate it with. Oddly enough, she _shows_ the pins to her current duffel, which vibrates in excitement. Well, you _think_ it’s excitement. Kind of hard to tell what duffel bags feel. By the end of the day, Leslie and Lillie are fast friends, much to your relief.

Other than that, the days leading up to the semifinals are relatively uneventful. You, Guzma, and the rest of Team Skull, work on your routine for the next round. The act of creating routines is almost second nature to you now, and you actually find yourself having input into the choreography. Plumeria, still in her cast and boot, is conspicuously absent for many of the rehearsals. A pang of guilt rings in your gut every time she’s missing; after all, you _did_ replace her.

“Yo, Plumes, you missed another rehearsal.” Guzma looks up from his cell phone as Plumeria descends the stairs into her basement. “Where the fuck you been?” 

It’s the end of a rather long but productive practice at Plumeria’s. She’s shown up right as the gang is settling down to eat lunch, and there’s something decidedly elusive about all her answers regarding where she’s been.

“I was just out doin’ stuff, Guzma. I do have a life outside this team, you know.”

Guzma’s brows furrow, but he leaves the subject alone. Instead, he leans back into the loveseat, and almost casually slings an arm around your shoulders. It’s a small thing, this little gesture of affection, but it still sets off those butterfrees in your stomach. You try to focus on Plumeria’s curious disappearances and cagey responses, but now Guzma’s fingers are idly tracing patterns along your back and your thoughts scatter like leaves in the breeze.

Whatever it is that Plumeria is up to will have to remain a mystery for now.

The semifinals come and go in the blink of an eye. Before you even know it, you and Team Skull are taking the stage at a theater amidst applause and cheers. You have a brief moment of spying your friends, Hau, Lillie, Leslie, in the audience, before the music begins. The routine is performed perfectly -- executed without so much as a toe out of place. The performances are always a bit of a blur for you; a combination of releasing anxieties that build up for days beforehand and the rush of adrenaline that always comes from performing. 

When Team Skull is announced as a finalist, along with Null Squad and It’s Super Effective, the crowd explodes into a triumphant, deafening roar. Your teammates echo this wordless scream of exultation as they surge towards you in a wild tornado of celebration. You’re grinning so hard your cheeks hurt as you’re battered by Team Skull’s over-exuberant hugs. And there’s Guzma, beaming like the sun, whirling you around in his arms, and pulling you in for a kiss.

It isn’t until someone wolf whistles that you realize there’s quite the audience gathered. Team Skull has parted to expose the two of you to the world, and all eyes are on you. A chorus of ‘aww’ arises from the crowd, and Guzma’s face is as red as an applin. He’s smiling bigger than ever, though.

All the squads leave the stage and the huge crowd begins to filter towards the exits. With Guzma’s arm around your shoulders, the pair of you lead the way out of the building. It’s slow going; the tiny and sparse exits bottleneck the crowd pretty effectively. As talks of celebratory plans get underway, the missing member of the team makes her appearance at last. With one major change.

Plumeria sits outside on the hood of her jeep, waiting patiently for the rest of the team to exit the theater. The team greets her enthusiastically, but you suddenly don’t feel like celebrating anymore.

Plumeria’s cast and boot are gone. 

A sudden lump has taken up residence in your throat. While the rest of Team Skull crowds around her and congratulates her on her recovery, you hang back from the group. A quiet, nasty part of your brain chastises you for thinking you had a permanent place here. You were only a temporary solution to a temporary problem, and now you’re back to being a nobody. Hot tears well up in your eyes, and your vision swims. _Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid._ While everyone is distracted, you escape unseen to the sanctity of your car.

When you’re alone behind the wheel, the tears threaten to spill forth, but you angrily blink them back. Your drive back to your home is a blur of hurt and regret. Regretting you went to the rec center, regretting you ever met a man named Guzma… regretting you ever thought those Team Skull hooligans were your friends. 

When you arrive, your home is empty. The lights are out inside and the door is locked. Your mother must still be out. It’s just as well; you have no desire to see her or anyone else right now. Instead you trudge up the stairs to your dark bedroom, kick off your shoes, and collapse onto your bed. Your phone buzzes, alerting you to incoming text messages, but you’d rather drink bleach than interact with anyone right now. You turn your phone off and toss it into your desk chair.

Now is when the tears come. Hot and blinding, they soak into your pillowcase, and your whole body wracks with quiet sobs. Curled into a ball and buried beneath your covers, you’re startled by the sound of the door creaking open. You’re about to tell your mother to leave you alone when the soft warmth of a purring Percy presses against your side.

“I’m an idiot, Perce,” you whisper, your voice thick with tears. “I can’t believe I let myself think…”

“Me-owth…”

You emerge from your blanket burrito to scoop the purring meowth into your arms. Although he’s not normally one for cuddling like this, he seems to understand that you need it, and allows you to bury your face in his soft fur. Like a balm to a fresh burn, it soothes some of the hurt, and allows you to drift off into a fretful and restless sleep at long last.


	14. Chapter 14

“Are you sure, sweetheart?”

“Pretty sure, Mom. Plumeria’s cast is off, so she’s in and I’m out.”

This is the fifteenth time your mother has asked you this question in just a few short days, and your answer has not changed. It’s really starting to annoy. You haven’t heard anything from any Team Skull members since Plumeria had shown up without her cast, but you’ve managed to convince yourself that you weren’t wanted. Listlessly, you spoon at your oatmeal, utterly disinterested in eating a single bite. It’s been a few days of this now, this general malaise. You’ve been hard pressed to do much beyond just existing. You’ve fallen into your old habits of moping around the house in just your pajamas, but this time it’s punctuated by long bouts of crying under the covers. Or in the shower. Or at the dinner table. Yanno, wherever is convenient.

“But did they _say_ that?”

“No, but they didn’t need to. I’m not stupid.” Truth be told, you haven’t turned your phone on since the night of the semifinals. You don’t want to hear Guzma’s excuses or explanations. It’s just easier to make a clean cut and pretend this whole thing never happened.

“I didn’t say you were stupid, sweetheart.” Your mother’s voice is empathetic and gentle, and she pours more coffee into your mug. “But sometimes… you have a habit of jumping to the worst conclusions.”

You scowl up at her, mug halfway lifted to your lips. This isn’t the first time she’s put forth this argument, and it still never fails to ruffle your feathers. Every time she says it, a tiny seed of doubt embeds itself in your brain, and now there’s a veritable garden of uncertainty thriving there. Why must mothers be so intuitive?

With a quiet sigh, she leans back against the counter and folds her arms over her chest. “Well. At any rate, the finals are in a few days. Are you coming with me to cheer them on?”

Indecision gnaws at you. On one hand, you _do_ want to see how this all turns out for them. They all worked so hard and they deserve to reap the rewards of that hard work, but on the other hand… seeing them again might have some negative repercussions to your already fragile mental health. And if Guzma corners you afterwards, he might try to offer some kind of explanation and you don’t want to hear it. Momentarily, you war with yourself, staring into your coffee mug, as if you’re trying to discern some clear answer from its caffeinated depths.

“...Yeah, alright. I’ve devoted this much of my time and energy to it, might as well see the end result.” You raise and lower one shoulder in a shrug, and heave a sigh. “It’d drive me nuts not to find out how they do.”

“Hell yeah, sweetheart.” Your mother gives your shoulder an encouraging squeeze, and whisks away your uneaten bowl of oatmeal.

Immediately, anxiety settles in the pit of your stomach, and it doesn’t abate in the days leading up to the finals. In some ways, it’s _worse_ than when you were expected to perform. At least then, you had Guzma’s presence to calm your nerves. Now you only have your mother, and she keeps giving you these worried glances that do nothing to assuage your fears. Several times over the next few days, you nearly call the whole thing off, but a tiny voice at the back of your head convinces you not to.

At long last, the day of the finals arrive. You awake the morning of, and for one brief moment, you half expect to hear Guzma’s snores rumbling beside you. Instead, a quietly purring Percy lays loafed on your stomach.

“Hope I’m not making a big mistake today, Perce.”

“Me-ow?”

“No, Percy, I told you. They don’t want me anymore. Plumeria’s better. I was just…” You heave a sigh and rub the meowth’s ears. “A band-aid at best.”

“Me-OWTH.” Percy flattens his ears with a low growl, and bops you in the face twice with his paw. With a low meow and his tail flicking in visible irritation, he hops off the bed, and saunters out the door.

That’s probably nothing.

Enough procrastinating. Time to get today over and done with. With all the energy of a particularly slothful slug, you push yourself out of bed and start getting ready. You debate just going in your pajamas -- at least you’ll be comfortable while watching former friends succeed -- but that tiny voice in the back of your mind talks you out of it. _What if you do see them? You really want them to see you in your pajamas?_

With a heavy sigh, you reach for your nicest pair of jeans. After getting ready, you dig your phone out of the dresser drawer it slumbers inside and pocket it. More out of habit than anything else, really -- you don’t even turn it on. As you head out the door, you spot your Team Skull hoodie hanging from the back of your desk chair, and hesitate. That tiny voice speaks once again, and it’s not so easily ignored. _At the very least you can give it back to him._ With a huff, you snatch the hoodie up, and head downstairs.

To your surprise, your friend Leslie is sitting at your kitchen table, chatting amicably with your mother over a mug of coffee.

“What are you doing here?” you blurt out. Her sudden appearance is so unexpected that all semblance of good manners flies from your head.

“Oh, hey!” Turning in her chair, Leslie smiles and sets down her coffee mug. “I just wanted to congratulate you on becoming a finalist! How’s it feel?”

A painful lump rises in your throat. “...I wouldn’t know. I got kicked out.”

Silence settles across the kitchen, punctuated by the sound of bacon frying on the stove. Leslie and your mother exchange worried glances.

“Well, your mom said you were going to cheer them on, right?” Leslie says, her smile becoming hesitant. 

“Yeah, that was the plan.” You sit heavily into the chair across from Leslie, and wordlessly accept the bacon your mother piles onto your plate. “Beginning to wonder if I should bother, though.”

“No, c’mon, it’ll be fun! I’ll drive you,” offers Leslie, her smile growing wider. “Lillie and Hau will be there, too.”

Her cheeriness only sours your mood more, and the knowledge that others will be witnesses to your humiliation. You know in your head that she’s just trying to be supportive, but your illogical id has been in control of you since the semifinals, and it’s not giving up this easily. With particular venom, you bite into a strip of bacon, glowering down at your plate. Leslie takes your silence for acquiescence, and squeezes your arm reassuringly. That same tiny voice that’s been harassing you all day reminds you to thank her for her support later.

Sooner than you’d like, you and your mother are sitting in Leslie’s car, and heading towards the location of the finals. In the heart of Ryme City sits an old opera house -- usually reserved for big theatrical shows put on by acting troupes -- now packed with a crowd to watch the dance competition finals. You feel the usual knot in your stomach as you exit the car, but it’s different somehow. You don’t fear performing, not anymore. But the idea of having to see Team Skull perform… without you. That stings, just a little.

“I’m going to go park the car,” says Leslie, as you and your mother step out onto the sidewalk. “Save me a seat!”

You hesitate, and for a moment, the idea of leaping back into the car becomes highly attractive. Your mother, sensing your moment of pause, loops her arm around yours, and tugs you with gentle but firm pressure towards the theater entrance. Before you sit, she places the Team Skull hoodie around your shoulders. The unease burrows itself deeper into your stomach as she sidles past you to her seat. 

“Just in case,” she says with a smile that is far too knowing.

_Just in case of what?_

As the rest of the crowd filters in and fills the seats around you, your eyes flick from face to face, hypervigilant for anyone you might recognize. Once, you thought you spied Guzma’s signature tuft of white hair in the crowd, but it turned out to just be an old woman with her swirlix perched on her shoulder. You’re so focused on keeping a lookout for any recognizable faces, you nearly jump out of your skin when Leslie taps you.

“Did you see them?” you hiss at her as she sidles past you to the empty chair between you and your mom.

“Who?”

You give her a pointed look.

“Oh! Um, no, but they wouldn’t come into this entrance, would they?” She twists in her seat, casting her gaze across the whole of the theater. 

“No… no, I guess they wouldn’t.” You try to settle back into your seat and calm your frazzled nerves, but your anxious stomach won’t cooperate.

“Oh, there’s Hau and Lillie!” Before you can stop her, Leslie throws her hand up into the air to get their attention.

Maybe they won’t see her waving. 

You’re never that lucky. They spot her almost immediately and pick their way through the crowd to your seat. Great. Just wonderful.

“Hey! What are you doing in the audience?” asks Hau as he approaches. “A-Aren’t you performing?”

That same familiar lump from before sticks itself in your throat once more and you don’t answer. You can’t. You simply cast your gaze down to your fingernails.

“Oh.”

As they sidle past you to the seats your mother is saving for them, Lillie touches your hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll kick his ass for you if you want. Just say the word.”

This manages to pull a smile from your lips, albeit a watery one.

Eventually, every seat in the theater is filled, and the lights dim. Hala steps out onto the stage amidst cheers and applause, and waits patiently for the noise to abate. 

“We’re about ready to begin, folks. On behalf of Ryme City’s Annual Oricorio Moves competition, I would like to take a moment to thank the participants for their hard work and dedication.” He pauses for a moment while the audience applauds and cheers. 

For half a heartbeat, you spy Guzma’s face peeking out from behind the curtain, and your heart leaps suddenly into your throat. You could’ve sworn his eyes met yours, but it might’ve been a trick of the light.

“First up,” continues Hala, as the applause dies down, “We have It’s Super Effective! Give them a round of applause!”

As the team takes the stage, Hala exits, and the performance gets under way. To be perfectly honest, you pay very little attention to the display. Your attention is focused entirely on that spot where Guzma’s face had momentarily appeared. Electricity pulses through you, and your leg bounces in a vain attempt to offset some of the excess. At one point, a collective groan rises up from the crowd and you barely catch one of the dancers tripping themselves up and nearly falling flat on their face. But, oh! No, that was just a part of the routine! The dancer recovers with grace and the crowd’s sounds of dismay turn quickly into cheers.

When the performance ends, Hala retakes the stage, applauding for the team as they take their bows and scurry behind the curtain.

“Very good! Next up, we have Null Squad!” announces Hala, and Gladion’s team takes the stage.

Null Squad’s performance is all quick, mechanical movements set to hard and fast electronica. It’s a brilliant exection of the technical and the robotic, but in the end, it feels too clinical. Much like their previous choreography, it’s calculating and cold and programmed. Although, you suppose that’s probably the point. As their performance winds down and eventually ends, the nervous energy sparking through you is enough to power a small city. There’s only one team left…

Hala once again takes the stage, applauding along with the crowd as Null Squad take their bows and exit the stage.

“And last but _certainly_ not least, Team Skull!”

The crowd erupts into cacophonous applause and cheers, but you don’t hear them. Your entire world view is focused wholly on the figures now taking the stage, and your heart is drumming in your ears, deafening you to the thrum of the crowd surrounding you. But something’s wrong. Your eyes scan the faces of the dancers on stage, silently counting. The team is down one member. Plumeria is conspicuously absent.

_What?_

While the rest of Team Skull takes their places on the stage, Guzma moves over to Hala and leans into the microphone. Hala looks visibly ruffled by this unexpected intrusion, but doesn’t fight it. 

“So… ya’ll mighta noticed we’re missin’ a member of our crew tonight,” says Guzma, casting his eyes over the crowd, seemingly searching for someone. His voice echoes across the stadium, deep and resonant, and the crowd falls silent.

You’ve forgotten how to breathe.

“They uh… they got it in their head that they were bein’ replaced, I guess, and that’s prolly my fault. I didn’t let ‘em know how irreplaceable they are. To the team and...” He swallows hard. “And to me.” 

A chorus of awws, mingled with whoos and whistles, rises from the audience, but you don’t hear. Guzma’s voice is all you can focus on.

“But they been with us since we started this whole thing and they put in more work than _any_ of us!” He turns away from the microphone, looking over his shoulder at his team who shout and clap their concurrence. The audience joins in, and soon the entire auditorium is echoing with support. For you.

You feel tears starting to well in your eyes, but you can’t stop smiling. 

Guzma returns to the microphone, and a hush falls over the crowd as he continues. “I know that missin’ person is out there in the audience somewhere. And I just got one thing to say to ‘em.” He takes a deep breath. “We need you. I… I need you.”

Amidst thunderous applause and whistles and shouts, Guzma jumps from the stage. The spotlight follows him as he crosses the theatre, directly to where you’re sitting. At this point, your face is a mess of tears, and when he extends a hand towards you, the audience’s cheers reach a fever pitch. Wiping at your streaming eyes with the end of your sleeve, you take Guzma’s hand, and the audience goes batshit. They explode with applause and cheering and several people let loose sharp, piercing whistles. On the stage, all semblance of professionalism is forgotten as Team Skull unite in the loudest mass hug in history. 

Hand in hand, you allow him to lead you to the stage, and Team Skull helps lift you up. The cheers for you haven’t abated, and you extend a sheepish hand to wave at your adoring public.

Grinning up at you, Guzma clambers back onto the stage. As the music begins and the dancers take their places, you suddenly remember that you haven’t taken part in any rehearsals for this final performance. It turns out to be a trivial concern. This final piece of choreography has taken bits from previous routines and combined them into one wild whirl of movement and music. The partial familiarity of the routine combined with the connection you share with your partner and your transformation into a skilled dancer make all the movements second nature. Your eyes never once stray from Guzma, and his smile never wavers.

The performance ends, and your senses return to you in bits and pieces. First, the deafening roar of the crowd, your heart pounding in your chest, Guzma’s heavy breathing. _This doesn’t feel real._ With a huge grin permanently fastened to your face, you cast your gaze out amongst the darkened theater and catch sight of your mother, her eyes shining with tears. Hau, Lillie, and Leslie are jumping up and down and screaming their heads off. As you and Team Skull breathlessly line up across the stage to take your final bows, the people in the audience cheer and whistle and crow, and several get to their feet to stomp and clap.

Hala retakes the stage once more, applauding with the rest of the crowd as Team Skull disappears behind the curtain. “The judges will need a moment to deliberate, so we’ll take a ten minute intermission.” 

As the crowd steadily filters out of the auditorium, you and Team Skull have a heartfelt reunion behind the stage. 

“Man, I can’t believe you’d think we’d just drop you like that!” Reese says, yanking you into a rough hug, and ruffling your hair.

“I just figured with Plumeria better --”

“Oh, Plumes has been workin’ on becomin’ a pokemon trainer!” Cleo says, grinning so wide you fear her braces might snap. “That’s what she was bein’ so secretive about! She’s _really_ good, too. She showed us a video of her kickin’ the crap outta some psychic-type gym leader with her gengar!”

“She came to the semifinals to tell us she was gonna try for some more gyms and she was leavin’ on a road trip. She feels awful you thought you were bein’ replaced,” Frankie says, punching you playfully in the arm.

“It’s not her fault. I jumped the gun a little.” You offer the team an apologetic smile. “I’m really glad to be back, though. Think that was good enough to win?”

The team all voice their encouragement and optimism in unison, smiling at one another. They all begin chatting animatedly amongst themselves, waiting on the results of the competition to be announced.

Guzma’s fingers intertwine with yours, and he pulls you closer. “Win or lose, I’m just… so glad you’re here.” His voice is quiet, barely audible to anyone besides you. He mumbles something in Alolan as he buries his nose against your shoulder and squeezes you. 

You wrap your arms around his neck. “I owe you the biggest apology of all, don’t I?”

He lifts his head and brushes his thumb along your jaw, tilting your face up towards his. “Nah, just… don’t go disappearin’ on me again, would ya?” He flashes you a brief cheeky grin, and leans in closer. His thumb grazes across your bottom lip, and it’s clear what he’s going for.

Before you can lean up to reciprocate the advance, a voice comes over the microphone. Hala’s voice echoes through the auditorium over the quiet din of noise.

“Alright, folks, take your seats and we will get to the results momentarily.”

The teams all assemble on the stage, while the audience retakes their seats. The nervous energy of the teams is palpable -- practically lighting the room. Your heart pounds in your chest, and it’s only Guzma’s warm, square hand on yours that keeps you steady. You chance a glimpse at his face. A furrow to his brow but a cocky grin to his face -- he gives nothing away. Butterfrees flutter in your stomach, but you smile too.

“First,” says Hala, leaning into the microphone. “Let’s give a round of applause for all the teams that made it this far.”

The crowd gives the applause asked of it, but you can tell everyone is waiting with bated breath to see who will win this long and bitter rivalry. They’re not the only ones awaiting an end to this. You cast a glance down the line of dancers, seeing all the nervous, hopeful faces. Everyone here worked so hard to get to this place, and you honestly aren’t sure who should come out on top. Time to find out...

Hala leans into the microphone and the “In third place, we have Null Squad, led by Gladion Hosenka.” 

Gladion’s expression is nothing short of stricken. As if moving through pudding, he steps up to Hala to receive the award, and when he steps back in line with his teammates, he looks to be on the verge of tears. You spy Lusamine stalking up the aisle towards the auditorium’s exit, her entire body rigid. Gladion is standing there quietly while the crowd applauds, slowly turning the trophy over his hands. With his brows knit together in a confused scowl and his lips pulled back in a hurt grimace, you kind of feel bad for him. After all, he worked just as hard as you did.

“In second place…” Hala’s voice reverberating through the theatre jolts you from your reverie, and you suddenly remember exactly where you are.

You take a deep breath and let your eyes close. You squeeze Guzma’s hand so hard your fingers ache. _Please, please, please._

“Team Skull, led by Guzma Bromley!”

With a gasp, your eyes snap open, and immediately turn towards Guzma. His expression is as shellshocked as you feel, all semblance of that chill confidence lost. He stands there, eyes staring blindly out at the crowd as they whistle and stomp and cheer his name. He doesn’t even blink.

“Second place? Fuck yeah!” hisses Frankie, slapping Guzma enthusiastically on the back and shoulder, and this, blessedly, seems to pull him from his trance.

That grin plasters itself across his face once more, and he slips easily into that arrogant facade. Still grinning, he steps up to receive the trophy, lifts it above his head in a cocky, triumphant gesture, and retakes his place in line beside you. The crowd eats it up. As he returns to your side, you flash him an eager grin, and that facade crumbles into the real thing. There’s a gentleness to his expression that makes your heart melt. Second place is by no means a loss.

“And that leaves It’s Super Effective as our winner, led by Crysta Travers! 

The leader of the winning team, a curvy girl with half of her long blonde hair shaved, claps her hands over her mouth. Her eyes swimming with tears, she steps forward to accept the first place trophy, while her team all hug one another and weep openly. Truth be told, you’re really happy for them. And you’re really proud of just how far you and Team Skull have come together. You spy Gladion actually smiling and applauding for the winners along with everyone else, and for the first time ever, you actually like him.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re calling out to Gladion. “Hey!” You hurry along as the teams take their exit from the stage. “Gladion, wait up!”

“Yo, babe, what the fuck are you doin’?” Guzma watches, mouth agape, as you pull away from him to approach his rival.

“What do _you_ want?” Gladion says in an icy tone, turning towards you with a disgusted scowl on his face.

“I just wanted to say that you did a good job. Null Squad’s an impressive team and you should be proud.”

This takes nearly everyone by surprise, including Gladion himself. His expression is that of a particularly flummoxed magikarp, mouth hanging open and eyes wide. “Th… thank you.”

You smile brightly, pat him on the shoulder, and return to Guzma.

“C’mon,” he says, as he slips an arm around your shoulders. “We got some celebratin’ to do.”

And celebrate you do. Instead of playing babysitter to a drunk gaggle of troublemakers, you invite Team Skull back to your house, and spend the evening introducing them to your mom and Leslie. Everyone chips in to buy a few pizzas and some beer, and you find out your mom is pretty good at Mario Kart. With Princess Peach as her main racer, she beats nearly everyone. Guess you learn something new every day. Eventually, sober Frankie ushers her drunken friends, Hau included, out into her car, gives you one last farewell salute, and drives off into the night with her friends all piled in the backseat. Leslie promises she’ll call you in the morning and heads out around the same time, Lillie following after. Your mother gives you a kiss on the forehead and warns you not to stay up too late before disappearing into her bedroom.

It’s just you and Guzma.

He’s been unusually quiet all evening, even as the rest of his team were at their maximum celebration capacity. After saying good night to your mother, you return to the couch where he’s currently lounging. With an exhausted sigh, you settle against him and tuck your feet beneath you. His warmth is comforting and solid, and suddenly you feel bone-tired.

“Hey.” 

“Hey, yourself,” he says with a smirk, and drapes his arm around you. After all this time, these casual moments of affection never fail to make your heart skip a beat. You doubt you’ll ever get used to it. It just feels too surreal.

“You’ve been pretty reserved tonight. Figured you’d be the loudest of us all.” You shift a little, leaning your head back against his shoulder so you can see more of his face. “Everything okay?”

He takes a deep, even breath, and the corner of his lip curls into a subtle smile. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Well… you can be kinda competitive. Getting second place after all that work --”

“Eh,” he shrugs. “I know it sounds cheesy but I think I got the better prize outta all this.” That familiar, lopsided grin blossoms across his face, and his eyes regard you with such a soft, genuine affection, your stomach flutters. 

“You’re right.”

His smile falters. “I-I am?”

“Yeah, that did sound cheesy.” A little laugh escapes you at his disgruntled expression, and you tuck your head beneath his chin. “I am sorry, though.”

He stiffens. “For what?”

“Well, we got second place because of --”

“I swear to Arceus, you ain’t gonna say we got second place ‘cause of you, are ya?”

“Well --”

“Don’t.” He pushes away from you and sits up. With a furrowed brow, he regards you. His expression is almost hurt. “How could you think that?”

“I was the only one who didn’t rehearse it, Guzma.”

“Listen. Ain’t easy for me to say this kinda shit, but no more hidin’. “ He takes a deep breath, and a steely expression sets itself on his face. “If it weren’t for you… I’d...” He trails off, his expression becoming conflicted. With a frustrated grunt, he pushes himself to his feet and begins to pace, dragging his hands through his hair. “Why is it so hard to talk about this shit…”

You can only watch him pace, brows furrowed.

He takes another deep breath. “If you hadn’t been there, we woulda never even competed tonight.” A muscle in his jaw jumps. “I went to that theatre hopin’ you’d be there, but if you weren’t?” He shrugs, face pulled into a grimace. “We’d’ve been disqualified.”

“Guzma…”

“L-Lemme finish.” He swallows hard and drops to his knees in front of you. “If it weren’t for you… I’d be takin’ a second place win a lot worse, and you know it.” He places his hands on your knees, pushing them apart to make room for him between. “With you here, second place… feels a helluva lot like first.” He reaches up, his thumb brushing along your jawline, and draws you down towards him in a kiss. 

The kiss feels like that first kiss all over again, and it stirs within you that same mixture of euphoria and trepidation that it has so many times in the past. His arms tighten around your waist, pulling you deeper into his embrace. You reciprocate with fervor, and the two of you retire to your bedroom for the evening.


	15. Epilogue

In the months following the finals, life settles back into almost normal.

Guzma returns to teaching at the rec center, with ghost tours as a side gig. Hau and Reese continue to get up to their old antics. Lillie visits you often, usually with iced coffee and hot gossip. Leslie’s endless support and patience does more for your mental health than she will ever know. It’s strange to have gone from someone so alone to someone with so many friends. You can hardly believe your luck, really.

Guzma’s classes see a noticeable uptick in attendance ever since your performance at the finals -- so much so you’ve had to start scheduling extra sessions to handle the overflow. He spends less and less time doing ghost tours, but Lillie finds a new partner -- Gladion Hosenka. You might’ve had a hand in setting that up, but both of them took to the idea like a psyduck to water. Gladion’s cool personality is a good antithesis to Lillie’s upbeat outlook, and they do a strangely excellent job of balancing one another out. Guzma has his reservations at first, but over time the two have formed a respectful if begrudging partnership.

Plumeria followed through on her dream of becoming a pokemon trainer. Not a week after the finals, she packed up her blue jeep and took her pokemon on the road. Guzma gets regular postcards from her -- mostly about her statistics and when she’ll be featured in a televised match.

“Show off,” mutters Guzma, as he looks over her most recent postcard. The picture on the front features a sepia-filtered photo of Mount Coronet, with the words “Wish You Were Here” printed in flowing white script. On the back she had included a photograph of her with her team -- gengar, salazzle, muk, lurantis, toxapex, and crobat. 

“Guzma, that sounded suspiciously like jealousy,” you say with a teasing grin. You toss him a bottle of water and pull another from the fridge. The pair of you have been locked in an epic battle for Overcooked supremacy for the better part of two hours. Both of you have worked up quite a sweat, and quite an appetite. The microwave in the kitchen hums as the pizza rolls rotate slowly inside.

“I ain’t jealous,” replies Guzma, a bit too quickly, and he tosses the postcard down on the table. “She’s just always tellin’ us about how much ass she kicks.” He wrinkles his nose and his expression twists into a disgruntled grimace. “The only ass I kicked lately was yours in that Rocket League match earlier.” A mischievous grin curls his lip as he side eyes you, and he takes a long sip of water.

“Hey!” Indignant, you put your hands on your hips. “I’d never played that before!” With all the venom of a newly hatched togepi, you swat at his arm.

His expression becomes suddenly impish and he lunges for you, his hands seeking your most ticklish areas. With a yelp, you scramble backward away from his reach, and he leaps to his feet in pursuit. The two of you play a game of meowth and rattata for a few minutes, until the doorbell’s melody interrupts your game. At that same very instant the chimes catch your attention, Guzma tackles you to the floor.

He looks up to the window that faces your front door from his position above you. “Oh, it’s Reese and Hau.” He grins, steals a swift kiss from your lips, and clambers to his feet.

With a half sighed laugh, you push yourself into a sitting position as Guzma opens the door for his friends.

“Hey, boss!” Reese pushes his way past Hau, frantically waving a pale blue sheet of paper. “Look what they was puttin’ up at the rec center!”

Guzma grabs at the paper from Reese’s ceaselessly moving hand. “Stop flappin’ it around, then!” With a frustrated growl, he snatches the paper and looks it over. As he reads, his eyes start widening. “Oh, fuck… When did this go up?”

“Just today!” Hau says, grinning wide. “You’re gonna do it, right? You just gotta!”

“I don’t know, guys…”

 _Do what?_ Frowning, you get to your feet and join them, peering over Guzma’s shoulder at the flyer in his hands. The image features a tall brick clock tower and several trendy youths with their pokemon, crowded together around the base for the photograph. Bright, cheerful faces grin up at you from the paper. The words “Galar Elite Dance Championship” are emblazoned in a bold script across the top. At the bottom are details like dates, places, and the words: ‘International applicants welcome. Doubles only.’

“Guzma…”

He seems to be trapped between dumbfounded and exhilarated. “I-It starts in two weeks.”

“It’s only for teams of two, though. What about Team --”

“Oh, please,” Hau snorts. “Like Team Skull would wanna go to some chilly hellhole full of snooty Galarians.” He elbows Reese, eyebrows wiggling. They exchange grins. “This would be for just the two of you.”

Guzma’s expression gradually begins to shift, and you can see the wheels turning in his head. From his furrowed brow to the determined set of his jaw, he’s the very picture of deep thinking. He turns towards you, a slow yet somehow manic grin blossoming across his face. “Yo, you got a passport?”

“I sure do, boss.” A sly smirk curves your lip.

“What d’ya say me and you show these Galarians how it’s done, then?” He tosses the flyer onto the table and winds an arm around your waist. “I think we got some dancin’ to do.”

“Don’t we always?”

With a chuckle, he pulls you in closer, and bumps your forehead with his own. Reese and Hau vocalize their disgust at this blatant display, but he can’t seem to hear them. He has eyes only for you, and as you share a kiss, you know you wouldn’t have it any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap, folks! Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed it! I appreciate the comments and kudos so very very much! <3


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